


Make The Moves Up As I Go

by agirlnamedfia



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Emotional Constipation, M/M, Pining, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedfia/pseuds/agirlnamedfia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick has his first Econ 202 class on the second day of the spring semester. It doesn’t exactly go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, please check out the wonderful mix Elle made for this story, which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2687729) (with cover art!). I am deeply grateful for the work she put in it, it's awesome. Don't forget to leave her feedback!
> 
> Thanks go first and foremost to Gin, who is a _superstar_. She doesn't even go here, but she still took the time out of her incredibly busy schedule to tell me when I was messing up my plot and edit out my endless dumb spelling/punctuation/grammar mistakes. I can't thank you enough, babe. Major gratitude also to Brady for giving me this plot when three others had failed me, to Miriam and Jess for all the handholding and cheerleading, and to Naomi for the runover. Ladies: I salute all of you.  <3 Thank you also to the mods for organizing this entire thing! 
> 
> This is an AU where instead of going to the OHL, Patrick Kane went to play hockey for the University of North Dakota. Fair warning: I've twisted a lot of canon to suit my purposes, incl. player's ages and things to do with the school system. I've also simplified the format of NCAA hockey. Let's just pretend the Frozen Four is always after finals instead of before and conference championships aren't a thing? I just wanted to write a light-hearted story about boys at college being idiots, honestly. 
> 
> Warning: there are two instances of sex where alcohol is involved, and in one of them only one party is drunk. There are no consent issues (more like alcohol-lowered inhibitions, I think) but please let me know if there's anything that bothered you. Also, underage drinking (obv) and some deep repressing of personal issues going on. And lastly, there's a brief scene where Abby Sharp actually participates in the story, so if that's not your thing, keep that in mind.
> 
> (Title by Taylor Swift.)

Patrick has his first Econ 202 class on the second day of the spring semester. It doesn’t exactly go well. 

For one thing, he’s late to class, though it’s hardly his fault. He didn’t schedule the class at 8:30 a.m., did he? For another, he hasn’t done the reading, but again, not his fault. It’s the first class; how was he supposed to know there was reading? He only just got back from winter break like two days ago, and the guys wanted to have a welcome back party the night before, which then turned into an I-Still-Can’t-Believe-You-Came-Back-After-Getting-Drafted party, and, well… 

The professor—a different one from last semester’s Econ 201 class, which is a bummer because Dr. Guarini was awesome—stares at him when he quietly creeps open the door of the lecture hall. In fact, everybody stares at him. All hundred faces in the room are turned directly towards him. Pat can feel his face heat up. 

The guy looks at him the whole time, while Pat walks through the lecture hall amid whispering, while he desperately looks for a seat, and while he has to upend three different people when he finally finds one. It’s a really judgmental look too. The guy’s eyes are almost burning into the back of Pat’s head.

Thankfully, when Pat is finally settled, he turns back to his notes and moves on. Pat assumes he’s outlining the course, what their assignments will be, and what’s going to happen over the course of the semester, though afterwards, he’s hard-pressed to remember anything but the acute feeling of embarrassment and lingering smolders of anger towards the professor. Like _he’d_ never been late to class, ugh.

Class ends an hour and a half later without Pat having written down a single word. When he asks the girl he ended up sitting next to, she gives him an unimpressed look before agreeing to let him copy her notes—just this once. Pat throws her his most charming smile. It doesn’t seem to help.

Well, Pat thinks, that could have gone better.

*

“No, but it was so awful, though,” Pat complains later to Sharpie. He’s already all geared up, but Sharpie is still lacing up his skates so he makes for a convenient, if not exactly willing, listener.

Seabs makes a considering noise. “Greenberg, right? I’ve heard he can be nasty.”

Sharpie rolls his eyes. “You were late and hadn’t done the reading so he embarrassed you a little. Come on, Kaner, you can handle chirping but not that?”

“Everyone was staring at me,” Pat hisses, his cheeks flushed with residual embarrassment. “It’s different.”

“Right, because absolutely nobody was looking at you during the draft, of course,” Duncs smirks from where he’s taping his stick. Pat resists the urge to stick out his tongue.

“Whatever,” he says sulkily, stomping out of the room as best as he can on his skates. It doesn’t work that well, but at least the door sort of slams behind him.

Fuck, it’s going to suck having to deal with that class at 8:30 in the morning, twice a week. Why did he come back to UND again? He could have signed with the Blackhawks and been in the NHL, for fuck’s sake, but no, he had to go and listen to his mother when she extolled the virtues of a college education which would definitely help him get experience. He’d learn something too, and besides hadn’t he said he wanted to win the Frozen Four, just the once?

Pat’s bad moods sticks until he steps out on the ice. Then the scent of a freshly cleaned rink hits him and he can’t help but smile, cutting a few easy loops around the ice and forgetting about everything but hockey.

Damn, he loves hockey.

*

The thing about the Econ classes is they’re not prerequisites, like all the classes Pat’s had up to now. Okay, the Fundamentals of Public Speaking class last semester had technically been for communication majors, but it hardly counted. It was basically all about talking, and if there’s one thing Pat is good at, it’s talking. He had Econ 201 last semester too, but Dr. Guarini had this way of explaining things that made all the economic concepts so easy to understand.

Econ 202 is harder. There’s a lot of talk about math in relation to economics. Pat’s always been good at math and he thought he had a pretty good grasp on economics from last semester, but apparently when you throw the two together, shit goes to a whole other level. Half the time when Professor Greenberg starts talking about some kind of complicated concept, Pat can’t help but zone out a bit. 

His notes are full of scribbled, half-illegible terms like “Keynesian model” and “fractional reserve banking” without any kind of context. He tries to pay attention, but if they wanted him to be able to actually think, they shouldn’t have scheduled the class at 8:30 a.m. in a lecture hall twenty minutes away from Pat’s dorm. He categorically refuses to get up at an hour that starts with seven, which means he’s almost always the last person in the lecture hall, stumbling in with a steaming coffee in his hands, bleary-eyed and only half-decently dressed most of the time. 

The syllabus lies on his desk gathering dust. Pat tells himself he’ll crack it open soon, the next time he has a free moment, when he’s not schlepping all his stuff to or from the rink, when nobody’s knocking on his door demanding they go out for a drink or to the Red Pepper for a decidedly-not-nutritional-plan-approved grinder.

The problem is that Pat just really loves his guys, and he’s pretty well aware that this is to be his last semester at UND. If the choice is between trying to work his way through a course that is probably exactly as boring as it appears or hanging out with the team, talking trash and drinking more than is probably strictly advisable during the season, it’s not really a choice at all.

A couple days turns into a few weeks, during which Pat jumps right into his other classes, his social life and kicking some hockey ass with arguably the best team he’s ever been on. He practices like a boss and kicks ass up and down the rink. He organizes team bonding and movie nights and, on one memorable occasion, a decidedly ill-advised fraternity party crawl.

Unfortunately, somehow Econ 202 just never seems to happen. The syllabus stays on his desk, a vaguely judgmental reminder that he should really be having a look at it. Pat feels a pang whenever he sees it so eventually he hides it a drawer alongside a maybe-used tissue and an unopened packet of Twizzlers.

The first time he misses the class, it’s actually a total accident. Okay, he’s a bit hungover and yeah, he didn’t make it to bed until, like three in the morning, but it’s like the first (okay, almost second) month of term so he has some leeway at least. He has a vague memory of his alarm going off and an even vaguer one of aiming to snooze it. When he wakes up it’s four hours later and he’s so hungry he could eat a horse, so obviously that didn’t happen.

Nobody comments on it, though attendance in the class seems pretty rigorous from what Pat can tell. Professor Greenberg doesn’t give him a more judgmental look than usual, at least, and at the time, Pat thinks it’s his luck that nobody really makes a problem out of it.

Later on, he’ll realize that thinking he can skip the class without any trouble is the start of the problem in the first place.

*

Six weeks into term, Pat starts getting side-eyes from Coach Sekler, which means it’s probably time to cut down on the partying. It hasn’t been affecting his performance, Pat’s smart enough to stop that from happening, but it’s still for the better. Just because Chicago drafted him doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to give a good impression. College is college and some shenanigans are to be expected (Sharpy’s words, not his), but if Pat’s going to be a pro-athlete, he’s going to have to learn to keep his shit together anyway. Might as well start now. 

Besides, it’s not so bad. If anything, it leaves more time for other things like game-prep, practice and training, going to the gym, and occasionally even cracking open his books and trying his hand at homework or required reading. Most of Pat’s classes are still prerequisites and a lot of the teachers are really feeling the Sioux spirit, so Pat gets off easier than his fellow students. It’s nice and all, but he’d like to at least make some effort. 

Besides, some of the classes are super interesting, even if the coursework sometimes makes Pat gulp. His English class apparently requires three essays over the course of the semester and there’s some kind of final project for Social Sciences that Pat isn’t one hundred percent clear on but sounds like it might take a lot of work. Geography, on top of that, has regular homework and a lot of reading. 

It’s just that Pat would really rather be playing hockey so it’s hard to pay attention and not doodle plays and Stanley Cups in the margin of his notes. His English class has a lot of girls in it, though, which is great, and the Social Sciences and Geography classes can usually hold his attention for the full hour and a half. 

The other thing that a decline in Pat’s social life leaves room for is the rookies. Pat loves rookies. 

“Please, you’re barely out of diapers. You were a rookie yourself just last year,” Sharpy points out from where he’s crouched in his stall, rooting around for a fresh pair of boxers. Practice hasn’t been over long and the whole team is still around, drying off from the showers.

“Whatever, that’s not important,” Patrick says dismissively, pulling on his jeans. “What’s important is that Saader and Shawsy are rookies now.”

Saader and Shawsy, for their part, mostly look resigned, which makes sense. It’s almost spring, so they’ve been around for a semester already and have mostly proven their worth. Still, it’s never too late for some quality hazing. And Pat’s lacking things to procrastinate on schoolwork with.

“We’re not allowed to call it ‘hazing’ anymore,” Duncs points out. He’s already fully dressed, the weirdo, and leafing through what looks like a textbook if the picture of fearsome-looking Vikings on the front is any indication. Then again, with Duncs, who knows. “Besides, do you really want to go there, Kaner? Remember last year, when we did the thing and you almost cr—”

“Okay, moving on!” Pat interrupts loudly, shooting Duncs a covert glare. “Listen, guys, it’s nothing personal, it’s team tradition.”

In his own stall across from Pat, Shawsy rolls his eyes. “In February?”

“Besides,” Saader adds, voice muffled by the shirt he’s still pulling over his head, “you already did, remember? Last semester, when you glued all our shoes to the floor?”

Pat sighs dreamily. “That was a good time.”

“And when you put itching powder in our jocks and we had to go to the doctor,” Shawsy adds sourly.

“And when you did that weird thing with the protein powder and everybody’s shakes tasted like broccoli and dirt,” Duncs says with a disapproving lilt.

“In my defense, that wasn’t meant for you guys,” Pat says earnestly. It hadn’t been, really, but, well, it’s not his fault all shakers look the same. And he seriously hadn’t known Seabs was allergic to broccoli.

“The point is,” Sharpy says drily, “that I’m pretty sure the rookies are all hazed out. Yourself included.”

Pat sighs, leaning over to tie his shoes. “But I’m so bored,” he whines.

Nobody looks very impressed. Or indulgent. “You could try cracking open a book some time,” Seabs suggests. “I hear that’s pretty integral to the college experience.” Pat scoffs, but Seabs isn’t deterred, smirking slightly now. “Weren’t you bitching about Econ 202 just yesterday?”

“If you think that I’m going to spend my hard-earned free time studying, you’re so wrong, Seabs.” Pat mimes flicking away a tear. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“I know you’re behind on your coursework,” Seabs says pointedly.

Pat shrugs. “Whatever, just because you three are content to stick to college hockey and want to get a degree and be, like, responsible members of society and shit, doesn’t mean I have to be.” He slings an arm around Saader and Shawsy. “Some of us are going to the NHL, brothers.”

It’s a discussion they’ve had multiple times before, so Seabs, Duncs, and Sharpy just roll their eyes. Pat doesn’t get it, they’re all three of them good enough to go pro—they’ve been scouted even. But Sharpy wants to start a family with Abby and make tons of money when he graduates from law school, and Seabs and Duncs, well. They’ve made up their minds and are content with it, so who is Pat to stop them? Barring some good-natured ribbing here and there, of course, because Pat is Pat and will maintain to his dying day that it’s a dreadful waste.

They end up taking Saader and Shawsy back to the house with them, despite the fact that they both have dorm rooms. “Team bonding,” Bicks declares, slinging an arm around both their shoulders on the way out. “You too, Sharpy!”

Sharpy sighs theatrically. Ever since he moved out of the house and in with Abby at the start of the year, the guys have been chirping him pretty mercilessly about abandoning the team. Never mind the fact that he’s over at the house all the goddamn time and Pat, having had the dubious honor of inheriting Sharpy’s room, has to kick the guy out on a semi-regular basis.

Crow’s the one to propose Mario Kart while they’re all sprawled in the living room, pizza boxes and bottles of Gatorade strewn everywhere. Pretty soon the room is ringing with taunting insults and challenges, though most of the guys bow out early, too tired after a whole day of classes and practice to make it much further than midnight.

There’s only Pat and Shawsy left eventually, battling it out for the final victory while Saader yawns and lists on the couch. “Hey, there was one thing I wanted to ask, though.”

Patrick doesn’t even pause from where his Princess Peach is wiping the floor with Shawsy’s Luigi. “Speak, young grasshopper, for I am to be your guide in the treacherous and complicated maze of life.”

Saader rolls his eyes. “What’s with the empty stall? In the locker room?”

Shawsy answers before Pat can. “It’s Tazer’s stall.”

Saader’s eyes grow wide and Pat makes a face. Ah yes, the ubiquitous Tazer.

The thing about Tazer is that he’s kind of a mystery. Pat doesn’t know much about him. He never met the guy and the other dudes on the team don’t like to talk about it much. Nobody even told him who Tazer was, and why they were keeping a stall open for him. Pat had to find out from some dumb football jock at a house party at some point in his first year. 

Amidst a lot of mumbling, slurring, and a few spots of puking, Pat had eventually gathered that Tazer was somewhat of a legend on the hockey team because he’d been crazy good, in a wearing-and-owning-the-C, likely-to-go-top-three-in-the-Draft kind of way, but at some point during his sophomore year, he’d gotten into a few scraps that weren’t treated properly and it all ended up with a really bad concussion that had ended his career before he’d really gotten anywhere.

The thought still makes Pat flinch.

So Tazer had quit the team and hockey altogether, focused on his studies, and hadn’t stepped foot inside a rink or barely even spoken to the guys since. It’s a sore point with the team that nobody brings up if they can help it, and Pat suspects there’s a lot of unresolved anger floating around. It’s all very dramatic and sometimes he kind of wants to roll his eyes about it. Then he thinks about how he would feel if he couldn’t ever play again, not in the way it matters, and wonders if he’d be able to stand looking at his friends zipping around on a clean, fresh sheet of ice while he’s stuck in the stands.

He tries not to dwell on it.

“So why is the stall unused, then?” Saader looks sort of awestruck and impressed, which would make Pat laugh under any other circumstances. Tazer’s story is a cautionary tale, though, and all three of them know it.

“I don’t know,” Pat shrugs. The guys are notoriously tight-lipped about it all. “I guess maybe it’s because they still want him to come back or still think he’s part of the team or something.”

Shawsy changes the subject after that, but Pat can’t seem to get the story out of his head. So much so that when he gets back to his room after English the next day, he actually sits down at his desk and drags the Econ 202 syllabus out of the drawer he’d stuffed it in a few weeks ago. His mom’s words about how hockey isn’t a guaranteed future and anything could happen between now and the NHL are still floating around in his head. He’s not doing too badly in his classes, mostly thanks to a lot of goodwill from the professors, but he hasn’t been to an actual Econ 202 class for a while now, has no idea which section the class is at, and, huh, didn’t they have assignments due at some point during the semester?

It’s not huge, as far as syllabi go. It’s hardly the kind of massive tome he could bash someone’s head with, but it’s not exactly thin either. Pat cracks the cover, tries to ignore the feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, and skims over the table of contents.

And that’s when he realizes he’s probably, actually, kind of in trouble.

Well. Shit.

*

“I’m completely screwed,” Pat moans, arm flung over his shoulder. It’s the end of February, they’re in Kalamazoo for the weekend to play Western Michigan, and Pat’s actually brought his books with him on the road. The guys had given him so much shit about it when they found out, he’s pretty sure his cheeks are still red. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Coach Sekler had given him a friendly slap on the shoulder and commended him for his dedication. Pat hadn’t been able to get to his room quickly enough.

In the other bed, Sharpy is leafing through the syllabus with interest. “This looks like pretty complicated stuff, Kaner.”

Pat stifles the sound of despair that’s threatening to escape against the skin of his forearm. “I know,” he says, “and I don’t understand any of it.”

“Because you’ve been skipping classes.”

“I—” Pat trails off at Sharpy’s knowing look. “Well, yeah. But it’s just so _boring_.” Pat’s been trying to work his way through the syllabus on his own for the last week or so, but he’s pretty sure that he’s even more turned around on the contents now than he was before. Why are there so many formulas in economics, and why don’t they have any numbers in them?

It’s been at least three weeks since he’s gone to a class and the only thing in the syllabus he actually understands is the introduction. Everything else is all complicated formulas and inexplicable systems and endless bullet-pointed lists, and Pat is just so, so screwed.

The syllabus falls to the floor of their hotel room with a dull thump. “Look, there’s no point ssing about it,” Sharpy says reasonably. “Just ask for help or something. There’s always a tutor for something, right?”

“I can’t,” Pat says miserably, “the professor hates me, Sharpy, you don’t understand, like, he legit hates me.” Or at least, Pat is pretty sure he does. 

Sharpy’s eye roll is almost audible. “Well, hate or not, you’re gonna have to if you can’t do this on your own, buddy, because if your GPA isn’t up to snuff by the time the national championship rolls around, I don’t know if you’ll be allowed to play.” He groans as he hauls himself off the bed. “And I don’t think the ‘Hawks’ll like that.”

Pat mulls Sharpy’s words over all the way through practice and the pre-game rituals, trying to think of another solution. Any kind of solution, because he seriously doesn’t want to ask Professor Greenberg for help. Even worse, he’s not sure the guy will even be willing to help. He hadn’t seemed very friendly when Pat had still attended class, frequently late and pretty much always unprepared. Greenberg had given him the stink-eye more times than Pat could count. Now that Pat’s missed—he takes a second to count—six consecutive classes that probably hasn’t improved. Pat’s pretty sure this isn’t an ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ situation, no matter what his sisters’ magazines say.

His worrying goes on the back burner for the game. The Fighting Sioux have been doing great the whole season, they’re at the top of their conference right now, and Pat’s sure as hell not going to get in the way of that. Not when at least half the reason he came back was because he wanted to win the Frozen Four with the guys before the NHL.

They pull out a pretty convincing win, which does great things for Pat’s overall mood for a while, but the victory drinks are demure by default of half the team still being underage by America’s standards, and when Pat gets back to the room, the dreaded syllabus is on the floor between their beds, right where Sharpy left it.

Pat waves the syllabus in Sharpy’s direction when he gets back from calling Abby in the lobby. “Do you think if I explained the situation, he’d just let me pass?” He sighs at Sharpy’s dubious look. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.”

*

Coach Sekler calls Pat into his office less than a week later. His face is grave and Pat knows what the problem is before he even starts the lecture.

“Coach—” he starts, but Sekler cuts him off before he can finish.

“I got some interesting correspondence today, Kane.”

Pat slumps. Fuck. Busted.

“You know we keep an eye on the grades of our guys, right?” Sekler peers at him over his glasses. “Can’t play with shitty grades, son.”

Pat nods. “Yes, Coach.”

“So why am I seeing on my papers that you’re currently failing one of your classes?”

Pat bites his lip. “I’m having some trouble, I guess.” 

Sekler frowns. “Says here you failed an assignment?”

“I forgot about it,” Pat explains haltingly, looking down at his hands. “I haven’t been keeping up with the work, I guess, and I didn’t remember about it in time.” It kind of burns to admit it, especially to his coach. Pat’s never been a scholar, but this is the first time he’s well and truly fucked up and it’s embarrassing to have it out in the open like that. Plus, Sekler’s been on Pat’s side since the beginning, ignoring the assholes who looked at Pat and saw nothing but a short guy with decent skating and surprisingly good stickhandling skills.

“So, what?” Sekler asks. “You went blank?”

Pat shrugs. “I put something together,” he admits. “I wasn’t expecting much.”

When Pat looks up, Coach is staring at him pensively. “You’re good enough for the NHL, and you don’t need me to tell you that.” He sighs. “But if you don’t fix this soon, I’ll have to take measures.”

Pat gapes. “Coach—”

Sekler cuts him off with a well-placed look. “It’s out of my hands, Kane, them’s the rules. It’s looking to me like you got a bit of a workout ahead if you want to pick up your grade and if you can’t do it before the national championship, you might not get to play.” He glares. “And it better not interfere with your on-ice performance either, son.”

It’s a good thing UND has a tutoring center, Pat thinks somberly, 

*

He calls the center the next morning, figuring there’s no point in procrastinating on the solution to his procrastinating. They get back to him within a few days, sending him the contact details for a Jonathan Toews. When Pat looks him up via the student search, he finds that Toews is a senior with a double major in Business Economics and International studies. _Jonathan Toews_ , it says, _j.toews@UND.edu._ Somehow, Toews manages to look both completely apathetic and completely pissed off in his student picture. Pat’s almost in awe.

Pat e-mails the guy the same day, Coach Sekler’s uncompromising face still fresh in his mind, and when he gets back to the locker room after practice his phone is already blinking with a reply. 

_Yeah, okay,_ it says. _I’m only free Monday and Thursday afternoons, though. Hour and a half each time?_

_Shit_ , Pat thinks succinctly, because Thursday works but Monday afternoon is pretty much booked with Geography and Social Sciences running all the way till practice, so that is just not going to happen. 

He jumps when Seabs snaps a towel against his thigh. “What’s with the face, Kaner?” 

“Ow, you fucker!” Pat gestures with his phone. “Trying to set up a thing with a tutor.”

“Finally caved, eh?”

Pat bites his lip. “I missed an assignment,” he admits sheepishly. Seabs eyes go wide. “I mean, not like. I didn’t miss it entirely, I handed something in! But I failed it.”

Sharpy whistles from where he’s towel-drying his hair. “You gonna be able to make up for it?”

“Let’s hope so.” Pat says, trying to eliminate all doubt from his tone. Surely he’ll manage. He glances at his phone again.

_Can’t do mon aft, class and practice sry. :( mon morning?_

This time it takes Toews a lot longer to respond, but by the next morning here’s a curt _Fine._ in his inbox. 

By next Monday, Pat has read about halfway through the syllabus, much to the amusement of his teammates. Whatever, Sharpy drags his reading around everywhere when he needs to catch up, why can’t Pat? It hasn’t done him any good, though. For all that he’s good at math, economic theory and its formulas are a complete mystery to him. Pat’s always been more of a calculus kind of guy, really, and maybe some geometry if he had to. 

The tutoring center is busy, but Toews e-mailed that he’s reserved a room for them so Pat hikes his bag up his shoulder and heads to what looks like the reception desk. The girl sitting behind the desk—Kate, her nametag says in bright green marker—smiles at him.

“Hey, Kaner,” she says easily. “Jonny’s in room C.”

Pat pauses. “Hockey fan?”

“Go Sioux!” Kate is rather pretty, he idly notes. 

“Where am I going?”

“Down that hall, third door on your left,” she points helpfully.

Pat makes sure to smile at her charmingly, gratified when she giggles again and blushes. “Thanks.”

“No problem!” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Between us, he’s in a bit of a mood today, so don’t take it personally, yeah?”

She’s obviously familiar with the guy that’s pretty much Pat’s hope of passing this stupid class. He shifts, leaning a bit on the counter. Time for some intelligence gathering. “You know him, then?”

Kate looks at him weirdly. “Jonny? Yeah, of course. Don’t you?”

“I just got his info from the tutoring center, like, a few days ago,” Pat says. Why on Earth would he know a senior student from the business department?

Kate’s looking at him even more confusedly now, but there’s a shout from behind her before she can reply. She makes an apologetic face and hurries off in the direction of the office where it sounds like there’s some kind of printer-related disaster going on, and Pat shrugs. Time to face the music.

Toews, who apparently goes by Jonny, is already in the room, visible through the windows. He’s bent over a huge reference book that Pat seriously hopes has nothing to do with him because that thing is probably heavy enough to break a limb and Pat is just not down for that kind of shit. 

“You’re late,” is the first thing Toews says. He doesn’t even look up from where he’s still taking notes.

Pat tries not to bristle, mostly because it’s actually a fair point. “Sorry, got held up at the desk.” 

Thankfully, Toews slams the massive book shut and slides it off to the side.

“All right,” he says, looking far more serious than he had on his student picture, something Pat hadn’t even thought possible. He also looks way hotter than he had on his student picture, which, shit, is not a complication Pat had foreseen. “What’s the issue?”

The Econ 202 syllabus thumps when Pat drops it on the table. “This thing. I just don’t get it, it’s stupidly complicated.”

Toews pulls the syllabus towards him. “Greenberg?” He makes a face at Pat’s assenting nod. “He’s not gonna go easy on you. Have you gotten to the parts about new neoclassical synthesis yet?”

“Um.” Pat tries not to flush at Toews’ raised eyebrow. “I think so?”

Toews leans back in his chair, looking intent. “How long since you last went to class?” he asks eventually.

“I went on Thursday!”

A raised eyebrow. “Did you have an assignment due?”

“Yes.” Pat sighs. “Look, I know this is my own fault, okay. I got myself in trouble by, I don’t even know, not paying attention. Skipping too much, I guess. But I’m trying to fix shit! That’s why I’m here.”

Toews sighs. “Greenberg is a stickler for attendance, so that’s not gonna work in your favor. How often?”

“What?”

“How often did you skip?”

Pat looks at the table. “Um. A few times?” He can feel Toews’ judgmental eyes burning, which he will forever swear is the only reason why he eventually mumbles out a, “Three weeks?”

The muted groan coming out of Toews’ mouth is disturbingly attractive. Pat forces himself to ignore it. “So basically, you got nothing.”

“I understand the introduc—Yeah. I got nothing.”

“All right,” Toews sighs after a minute. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

*

The system Toews sets up is deceptively simple, even if it makes Pat’s schedule even busier than it’d already been. 

Okay, so it hadn’t been excruciatingly busy before, but that was mostly because Pat was very good at cramming and even better at charming his professors into extensions. 

Toews, whom Pat still has trouble thinking about as Jonny, is different. Pat finds out quickly enough that Toews is an experienced tutor. It’s glaringly obvious from the way he makes Pat work. They go through Greenberg’s syllabus together from the start, and on top of that he sets Pat reading and sometimes even gives him homework that he genuinely expects Pat to fill in.

“Oh my God,” Pat groans one Thursday, two weeks after they’ve started working together. “Why are you doing this to me, can’t you just explain all this stuff?” 

Jonny, who’s just finished taking a red pen through the worksheets Pat had painstakingly filled in, snorts. “Greenberg’s final is a bitch,” he says, “and you won’t be able to whine at me for the answers. Besides, you’ll remember more if you learn it like this. Question three, come on. Explain your answer to me and try to figure out what your mistake is.”

Pat thunks his head on the desk. He’d been trying too. Well, a bit. Some. In truth, he’d totally forgotten about the worksheets until after practice last night. When they’d gotten back to the house Bicks had insisted on omelets, which everyone knows is code for ‘Pat, king of eggs, make us some food, will you?’. Sometimes Pat sorely misses the meal plan from freshmen year. He’d only just settled himself at his desk when his laptop had pinged with an incoming Skype call from Erica, and by the time they’d hung up the only thing he’d been ready to do was faceplant on his bed.

Pat makes it a point to actually go to Econ now, even though it kills every fiber of his soul to get up that early. There definitely hadn’t been any time before class and clearly the hours between class and tutoring hadn’t been enough.

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t how tutoring works,” Pat says sulkily. “How do you even have time for all this? Don’t you have work of your own?”

Jonny doesn’t even look up from where he’s leafing through a reference guide that is supposed clarify the appropriate backgrounds for Pat or something. Who even knows. At this point, Pat is completely lost.

“Yes,” Jonny says dryly, “I do. I could be working on it right now, in fact.” The look he shoots Pat is a combination of challenging and disdainful. It’s not the first time Pat has seen that look, and weirdly enough, it works. He finds himself wanting to do better, to be better, for this guy he barely knows. He hadn’t even known Jonny existed not three weeks ago and now he finds he actually looks forward to these dumb tutoring sessions. Or at least the Jonny part, not so much the economics part.

Jonny is a good teacher, is the thing. He’s the perfect combination of demanding and understanding and he’s great at laying things out in a simple enough matter that Pat can get his head around. He’s also kind of smart, stupidly hot, and his sense of humor is even drier than Pat’s. 

It’s getting to be a bit of a problem, actually. Pat finds himself biting his lip several times a day when he’s hanging with the guys, holding back any number of variations on “Jonny said”, “Jonny did”, or “Me and Jonny”. It’s not that he’s afraid of the guys knowing; they all know he’s bi and they’re cool with it. Honestly, it’s more that he doesn’t want to encourage himself. Or put up with the mountains of shit they’d give him if they found out he had a—whatever, it’s not a crush. It’s _not_.

Plus, there’s always the risk of the guys crashing one of their sessions and that’s pretty much the last thing Pat wants to happen. Ever. The team is great and all, but they know Pat far too well. The ‘pining’ and ‘mooning’ chirps would never end, and between hockey and his classes Pat’s got enough shit to worry about, thanks. Besides, he’s not pining _or_ mooning. But he’s also not dumb enough to admit the potential is there and for everybody involved, it’s probably best to nip that in the bud.

Pat starts when Jonny clears his throat, and flushes when he realizes that he’s basically been staring the whole time. “Uh.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Question three, Kaner, keep up, come on.”

With a sigh, Pat pulls the textbook Jonny presented him with closer and bends back over the papers spread out all over the table. Fucking Greenberg, seriously.

*

Econ 202 isn’t Pat’s only class, but the other three are relatively easy in comparison. English has more homework that Pat had anticipated, true, but Dr. Rodriguez is a great teacher and she’s really good about it when Pat hands in his homework late. Social Sciences, in contrast, has almost zero homework. It’s great, except it means a lot of the grade rests on class participation, which Pat is fucking ace at, thank you, and the final project, which Pat hasn’t even started on yet. And then there’s Geography, which oddly enough turns out to be super fucking interesting. Mr. Lahai is a great lecturer, and he’s funny to boot.

It’s weird, though. Pat’s never been a model student. He has a tendency to celebrate too hard, study too little, and procrastinate too much. But he’s always made it work and he’s always passed—thank you last-minute cramming session talents. Now, on the other hand, he finds that he wants to put in the effort.

He takes his books with him on the road almost every time, which the guys have stopped giving him shit for. It becomes a bit of a habit for him and Sharpy to sit together en route and do their reading. He stops spending quite so much time shooting the shit and playing video games with Shawsy and Saader too, which is a bit of a bummer, but has the unintended side effect that they too start paying more attention to their studies. Coach Sekler actually pulls him aside and _commends_ him for it. 

Dr. Rodriguez looks pleasantly surprised when he hands an essay in on time, and Dr. Anderson actually smiles at him when he goes up after Social Sciences class to ask her about parameters for the final project.

“You’re turning me into a good student,” Pat grouses, dumping his bag on the floor. “It’s fucking disturbing, Jonny.”

Jonny’s expression is grave. “I’m truly sorry.” Pat can see the twitching at the corner of his mouth though. Fucker. He suppresses a smile of his own.

“You should be,” is what he declares instead. “All right, so last week Greenberg said stuff about tomorrow’s class having to do with monetarism, so. What is it? Lay it on me.”

Weirdly, it becomes a habit to not talk about Jonny to the guys and to not talk about hockey to Jonny. It’s sort of nice, actually. UND is pretty up in their hockey business and nobody’s really forgotten about that semifinal loss to Boston last year, so the pressure is definitely there. But Jonny doesn’t talk about hockey, never even mentions it to Pat, though he must know Pat’s on the team. He never thought having a hockey-free zone in his life would be something he enjoyed, but there you go. For three hours a week, Pat actually enjoys not talking about hockey. Just three hours, though. He’s not crazy.

Which isn’t to say that they don’t talk about anything but school, because Pat might sort of maybe like it better these days, but it’s not like he loves it or anything. Jonny does, though, which Pat finds out the first time he asks Jonny about his classes.

He’s treated to a ten-minute lecture, most of which flies right over Pat’s head, but he can’t bring himself to care. There’s something captivating about Jonny when he talks about something he genuinely likes. It’s not like his face is expressionless on any given day, but right now it’s practically lit up as he goes on about macro-economics and globalization and all sorts of things Pat only has the barest understanding of. His hands are flying through the air excitedly and there’s a glint in his eyes Pat recognizes easily. It’s the same glint he sees in Duncs’ or Seabs’ eyes before they make a beautiful pass, or that he sees in Sharpy’s face when he’s on the breakaway and heading for the goal.

“Sorry,” Jonny says eventually, flushing slightly. “I guess I get a little overexcited.”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Pat tears his eyes away from where Jonny was biting his lower lip. “No, you’re good. I mean, it’s good. That, uh, that you’re so into it, and shit. Um. So, the problem set?” He’s sure his face is the most easily readable thing in the whole world, but thankfully, Jonny just settles down and starts breaking down the questions for Pat to understand.

They talk about plans for the weekend, UND, family, and a whole host of other things besides. Pat learns that Jonny’s got a younger brother and commiserates, sharing countless stories about all the shit his sisters got up too. He talks about how fast Jackie’s growing up, how Jess has a boyfriend and Pat so doesn’t approve because the guy is a schmuck, shut up, Jonny, stop fucking laughing.

But they don’t talk about hockey.

It’s not a purposeful decision at first and Pat even invites Jonny to a game during their third session. Jonny’s hands go so tight around his pen that his knuckles go white and Pat’s pretty sure he can _hear_ Jonny’s teeth grinding together.

His voice is polite and even when he replies with, “No, thanks. Hockey’s not really my thing.” There’s a bitter twist to his mouth that tells Pat there’s more to the story, but he doesn’t ask. It’s not his business and besides, from the way Jonny immediately jumps into the next chapter, it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it. Pat doesn’t bring it up again.

*

It turns out that actually being on top of your schoolwork requires a bit more effort than he’d put in before, which is why Pat’s in the library on a sunny and crisp Sunday at the end of March when his phone pings with a text from Erica, asking if he’s available for Skype. The library’s pretty quiet, but Pat’s been in frequently enough—what a weird thought—to know that he probably shouldn’t attempt it here. 

_ETA 20min_ he texts back and giggles when Erica sends nothing but a thumbs up emoji in return.

Exactly seventeen minutes later, he plops down on his desk chair and signs in.

“Hey loser,” Erica says as soon as the call connects. “Jess, Patty’s on!”

Soon enough both his sisters are in the frame, jostling for space. Pat smiles through the pang of wistfulness he feels. Damn, he misses them.

“Not much. You? Where’s Jackie?”

“Oh, she’s with Mom at Grandma’s place. And, you know, same old, same old. Where were you that it took you so long to get home?” 

Jess wrinkles her nose. “Do we really want to know?” She protests when Erica elbows her in the side. “Just sayin’, he’s at college, who knows what he gets up to!”

“Actually,” Pat says, aiming for haughty but probably landing closer to constipated, “I was in the library.”

That gives them pause. “Wait, seriously?” Erika blinks. “In the library? On a Sunday?”

“What gives, Patty?” Jess adds. “You guys kicked St. Cloud ass last night, right? Didn’t you celebrate?”

Pat shrugs. “Course we did, but that was last night, wasn’t it? And I have homework.”

There’s a pause where they stare at him before simultaneously leaning closer to the camera. “Okay,” Jess declares, “who are you and what have you done to my brother?”

Pat rolls his eyes. “It’s not that weird for me to do homework, you know. I _am_ in college.”

“Please, Patty,” Erica says, “last year you did as little as you could get away with, and now we’re supposed to believe you’re aiming for a Best Student award?” There’s fondness in her voice and not a little teasing. Despite himself, Pat can feel a blush coming up. 

Jess is the first one to notice. “Oh my God,” she says, jostling their shoulders together. “Look at his face, Erica.” Her expression turns gleeful and Pat’s immediately overwhelmed with a feeling of dread. “Patty’s met someone!”

Erica, for her part, looks dubious. “I don’t know. Someone who makes him a better student?”

“I am sitting right here, you know,” Pat says, but they don’t seem to hear him. Or they don’t listen. Probably that.

“No, but look at him.” Jess leans her chin on her hands. “Go on, then, share. Who is it?”

Pat carefully ignores her ambiguous use of pronouns and glares in the webcam. “I haven’t met anybody,” he says firmly. “I’m just trying to be better, is all.”

“Uh-uh.”

“I had some trouble with Econ 202,” Pat admits, a lot quicker than he’d been prepared to do. Then again, he’s never been any good at keeping news from his sisters. Might as well just get it over with. “So I got someone to tutor me, and I guess it sorta bled over to my other classes, I don’t know. Whatever. That’s all.” He’s proud of how even his voice sounds.

Erica and Jess are looking at him with identical raised eyebrows. It’s fucking scary, actually, how alike they look right now. “So, the tutor, then.” Jess says after a minute, grinning.

Pat resists the urge to thump his head on the desk. “Jonny and I are just friends.” Then he realizes his mistake.

“Ohhhhh,” Erica coos. “Jonny, huh? Too bad UND’s student search is restricted, Patty, I’d like to know what he looks like.”

“Please. You’d never find him.”

“Really? If he tutors you in Econ, he’s probably a grad student or a senior in the business program. How many Jonnys could there be?” Erica is looking very smug, indeed. 

Jess, by comparison, looks more serious. “Patty…” Her voice trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish it. Pat knows what she means.

“There is _nothing_ going on between me and Jonny,” he repeats. His voice is no firmer, but at least this time his sisters listen.

“But you want there to be?”

“No!” Pat bites his lip at their unimpressed looks. “I don’t know. He’s hot and we’re friends and yeah, I like him, I guess, but whatever.”

This time Erica is the one who speaks up. “What about, you know. The team? The NHL?”

Pat shrugs. “Most of the team would be cool with it, I think. They know I’m bi, so.”

“And the Blackhawks?”

They’re not saying anything Pat hasn’t thought about himself, in the back of his mind, vaguely. Not even about Jonny, per se. It’s not about specifics, it’s about the future. Hockey is the only thing that’s certain about his future right now. Pat’s going to the NHL, he going to play for one of the Original Six teams, the Chicago fucking Blackhawks. 

But he’s also probably not going to be single for the rest of his life, and playing hockey and dating a guy… The two things aren’t exactly mutually exclusive, things have gotten better in the last few years, what with You Can Play and players coming out. But Pat’s still pretty sure it would be a rough ride, to say the least.

He shakes his head, annoyed at himself. What the fuck are they even doing? Him and Jonny are _friends_. In fact, to the best of Pat’s knowledge, Jonny’s straight. And, more importantly:

“He doesn’t even like hockey.”

Erica and Jess simultaneously make a face. “Who doesn’t like hockey?”

“Exactly!”

They stick around for another hour or so, chatting about all sorts of things that carefully have nothing to do with Pat and his possible crush on Jonathan Toews, for which Pat is immeasurably grateful. Though he comes very close to regretting that when they start talking about their boyfriends.

“Stop. Stop. For the love of God, please, just stop!”

Erica is outright laughing at him. “What, did you expect us to wear chastity belts? Become nuns?”

Pat groans. “No, but I don’t need to hear about it!”

He feels better by the time they sign off, like a weight that he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying around has suddenly been lifted. He smiles all during dinner and the Halo tournament Seabs and Duncs set up after. Saader and Shawsy have come over so Pat does his duty and sets them both up with a beer, waving away their protests of being underage. Freshmen, honestly.

They order decidedly-not-on-the-meal-plan Chinese, just for once, and have a quiet, companionable night at the house. It’s good times, even if Bicks kicks all their asses, and Pat goes to bed with a smile on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Pat’s been meeting with Jonny for two months when everything completely changes. Well, at first things are a bit confusing and then everything changes. And then it changes again. The point is, shit happens and Pat ends up surprised, confused, surprised again, and then really fucking confused. It’s a process.

It all starts out normal, with Pat rolling out of his bed at early-as-fuck o’clock in the morning, still half asleep as he stumbles into the shower. The house is quiet, as it always is at this godawful hour, but someone—bless their soul—remembered to switch on the coffee machine timer last night, so there’s at least some sweet, sweet nectar waiting for him in the kitchen.

Pat doesn’t usually bother with breakfast on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, so he grabs a protein bar and pours some coffee in his travel mug before setting off across campus.

Econ 202 is in Leonard Hall, about twenty minutes away, and it’s still quiet when Pat gets there and snags his usual seat in the middle section. He’s learned his lesson about sitting in the front _or_ in the back, thanks.

Class is surprisingly great. Professor Greenberg lays out a whole bunch of new stuff which Pat actually understands now, at least for the most part. He takes notes that actually make sense and when Greenberg asks a question and someone answers it, Pat can totally follow the reasoning. It’s been coming for a while, of course, what with his grades steadily improving and everything. Jonny’s a pretty great tutor and his never-ending litany of BE BETTER, PAT would inspire a saint to improve, but still. It’s pretty kick-ass.

And it gets even better when at the end of class a girl asks a question and Pat’s like. _Wait. I know this._

His hand is in the air before he’s full well realized it. Greenberg looks just as surprised as Pat feels, but he calls on him gamely enough. And then. And then.

Pat gets it _right_.

Jonny jumps when Pat drops his bag on their table with a loud thump.

“I,” he declares, “am amazing.”

Jonny’s lips twitch. “Oh yeah?”

Pat almost loses his train of thought at that look, because goddamn. It’s the perfect combination of amused and aloof and it’s so quintessentially _Jonny_. It makes Pat despair of how much he wants to climb the guy like a tree. Which he does. There’s really no point in denying it anymore, so Pat’s stopped trying. It’s true. He’s pining. In a dignified and distanced way, of course, but God, he’s so pining. Erica, Jess, and Jackie take turns in mocking him relentlessly and Pat can’t even bring himself to mind because, fuck it, Jonny’s hot and smart and funny, if you’re into dry humor, which Pat totally is. He’s a fucking catch, okay. Pat’s smart enough to read a situation and he still doesn’t know if Jonny is even into dudes (and he doesn’t like hockey, which, what the fuck, it’s almost enough to put Pat off, except for how it really isn’t), but there’s no law against pining from a distance. Whatever, it’s just a crush, he’ll get over it soon and—

—Damnit, he lost his train of thought after all. Pat’s pretty sure he’s blushing and Jonny’s definitely caught him staring again, but it’s not like it’s the first time, and whatever, Jonny seems to attribute it all to some kind of spacey Pat characteristic anyway, if his smirking is any indication.

Pat coughs when Jonny leans back. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Amazing?”

“Oh. _Oh_!” Pat grins, dropping down on what he’s fondly begun to think of as ‘his’ chair. “Yes! So amazing.”

“I’m getting that, Pat. You ever gonna tell me why, exactly?”

“Shut up, I’m getting to that. So I’m in class, right? And it’s almost over and Greenberg is like, closing off or some shit, you know how he gets at the end. And then the girl in the front row, you know the one I mentioned before, with the hair? I think her name is Jenny—”

Jonny’s full-on grinning now, not even bothering to hide his amusement. “Breathe, Kaner.”

“—Shut up, anyway, she asked a question, right?”

“Yeah?”

Pat makes an expansive gesture. “And I answered it. Correctly.” Jonny’s answering smile is one hundred percent genuine, his fist held up in a clear request for a celebratory bump that Pat is only too happy to give. “Listen, I know we have stuff to do and all, but this calls for a celebration.”

Jonny looks at him dubiously. “Okay?”

Pat grins. “There’s no need to look so scared, you wuss. You, me, Red Pepper. Okay?”

“Red Pepper isn’t really on your diet, is it?” Jonny’s smirk could make a pensioner weep. Shit, Pat wants to kiss him so bad. Goddamnit.

“Shut up. I’ll have a glass of milk with my grinder, whatever.”

The session ends up going great, Pat still riding high on his success and Jonny looking on amusedly. They make it through the parts Jonny had prepared from them with fifteen minutes left to spare. Pat grins while he signs the progress sheet as per usual, resisting the urge to pump his fist in the air. Red Pepper is _great_. It’s a fucking treat, and not one that he gets to have very often. 

“The guys are gonna give me hell if they find out,” he confides in Jonny as they walk down University Ave. It’s a nice day out, what with spring finally coming to North Dakota in the last week or so, so Pat chucks his jacket and tries to bask in the sun. It’s a lot harder than he thought, actually, and he realizes forlornly that his sunglasses are still in the bottom of a drawer where he threw them a few weeks ago in a fit of petulant rage, convinced that spring would apparently never show up in ND, ever.

“That you broke your diet?” Jonny, on the other hand, seems completely at ease in the cool afternoon sunshine. He’s not even squinting, the asshole, though he did take off his coat which Pat most definitely is not complaining about because damn, Jonny is rocking that V-neck.

Pat snorts. “Are you kidding? That I went to the Red Pepper and didn’t invite them, more like. This is post-win food only.”

The Pepper isn’t busy, thankfully. Lunchtime is over and though there’s always a bit of a crowd, Jonny manages to snag them a table easily enough. They order separately and Pat nearly snorts his water out of his nose when Jonny gets back to the table. 

“Milk? Seriously?”

Jonny sniffs, though Pat can tell he’s not offended. “It’s a good idea, and healthy. Why not?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Pat settles on eventually, and then proceeds to dig into his food with relish, barely suppressing a groan. Man, there has to be crack in these or something, Pat can’t think of any other explanation why something so simple as a meat grinder with extra cheese can be so good and so addictive.

Jonny snorts when he says as much. “You shouldn’t even be eating here,” he says, swallowing down a huge bite of his whole turkey grinder. 

“Whatever, who cares, don’t be such a party pooper. We’re celebrating!”

It’s a pretty great time, actually. Pat doesn’t usually have trouble talking to people, but he’s developed the bad habit of tripping over his words when he talks to Jonny, distracted by the curve of Jonny’s mouth or the angle of his jaw. Not this time, though. They talk easily while practically decimating their food, and Pat is relishing it so much he doesn’t even notice Sharpy until he’s rocked right up to the table, Abby in tow.

“Peeks!” Sharpy booms out, turning heads all around the place. “What are you doing here, we’re not supposed to eat he—” He does a double-take, stopping mid-word. “Jonny?”

“I could say the same about you,” Pat grouses in the ensuing silence and then stops. “Wait, what?”

“Hey, Sharpy,” Jonny says and, whoa. It’s like he’s a completely different person. Pat hadn’t been looking at Jonny, focused on Sharpy, but now he can see that Jonny’s shoulders are hunched and one of his hands is clenched tight around the table. Tight enough, in fact, that Jonny looks like he’s trying to break it singlehandedly, if not with his grip than with his stonefaced look.

“You two know each other?” Pat asks, when it becomes clear that nobody is going to offer up any insights. Sharpy is still staring at Jonny more intently than Pat’s ever seen him stare at anybody besides Abby, while Jonny is looking pretty much anywhere but at Sharpy. Or Pat, for that matter.

“Yeah,” Sharpy says eventually. “Or we used to.” There’s a harshness in his voice that Pat isn’t used to hearing. Sharpy’s the most easygoing guy he’s ever met.

Jonny flinches at the words but he doesn’t look up until Pat jostles their feet together. He shrugs at Pat’s raised eyebrows, and though it does nothing to eliminate the weird tension that’s surrounding them, it at least helps with the defeat that had been written in every line of Jonny’s posture.

“I didn’t know you knew Jonny, Pat,” Abby pipes up, because she’s a gorgeous and perfect human being and it’s a shame she’s already taken, otherwise Pat would totally woo her within an inch of her life.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “He’s been tutoring me. How do you know each other?”

At this Sharpy, who’d been entirely focused on Jonny up to now, turns his head to stare at Pat incredulously. “ _This_ is the tutor you’ve been yammering on about for weeks now? Jonny?”

“I don’t yammer,” Pat snaps automatically.

Sharpy rolls his eyes and even Abby looks amused. “You keep your door open when you Skype with your sisters, Peeksy, and besides, the walls in that house are fucking flimsy. Trust me, you yammer.” 

Pat fights to keep his flush at bay, not that it makes much of a difference because Jonny’s looked away again, staring out the window as if the lawn next door holds the secrets to the universe. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says desperately.

Sharpy doesn’t look inclined to answer anything, still looking at Jonny with that creepily intense expression. If Pat didn’t know any better, he’d say Sharpy was pissed, but that’s ridiculous, because Sharpy doesn’t get pissed.

Jonny’s the one who breaks the unnatural silence eventually. “I used to play hockey.”

Pat gapes. “You _what_?”

Sharpy snorts and Abby doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by the information. She’s looking at Jonny with a sympathetic expression that tells Pat that there’s a lot he’s missing here, but he doesn’t have the time to ponder it because Sharpy speaks up again.

“That’s one way of putting it.” He grunts when Abby thumps him in the side, and then sighs, most of the tension deflating from his frame. “Sorry, Peeks,” he says eventually, as Abby starts gently pulling him away to the counter. “It was good to see you, Jonny.” He smiles, a touch sadly. “We miss you in the locker room. Nobody really wears the C like you do.”

Pat will later deny Jonny and Sharpy’s words until his dying day, but the truth is that they’re right, the noise he makes at that is pitched so high that probably only dogs can hear. Well, dogs and Jonny, from the way he flinches again.

Neither of them notice Abby and Sharpy leaving and afterwards, Pat will feel at least a little bit guilty about it, but right now he’s too busy staring at Jonny. What the fuck. Jonny used to play hockey? Jonny used to _wear the C_? Nobody’s been appointed captain to the team for both of Pat’s years at UND, and he hasn’t heard anything about before that. Jonny’s not that much older than Pat, though, and if he played with Sharpy, and from the sound of it some of the other guys too, it can’t have been that long ago. Jonny on the ice, skating smoothly, God, the image alone is enough to make Pat want to drool a little. So much for Jonny not liking hockey. Surely if he used to play, if he used to be _captain_ —

And then the threads connect in Pat’s head with blinding clarity. He feels kind of dumb, actually, that he hadn’t realized it before. The way Jonny reacted the one time Pat mentioned hockey, the way that girl in the tutoring center had known who Jonny was and had assumed Pat did too. In hindsight, it adds up perfectly.

“Tazer,” he breathes out. 

Jonny still won’t look at him, but he nods jerkily. For a few moments, Pat has no idea what to say. Jonny is _Tazer_. Tazer is _Jonny_. Jesus Christ. 

The thing about Tazer is that the guys talked him up so much in the locker room that Pat had been imagining some kind of half-genius hockey savant or something. And Jonny’s great, but. Actually come to think of it, Jonny’s got the perfect build for a hockey player. He’s tall and he’s got a reasonable amount of bulk, even now that he’s no longer playing. 

“Sorry,” Pat eventually blurts out when the silence becomes too much for even him to handle. “I—I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. 'Sorry I didn’t know' seems silly and ‘Sorry about your head and that whole thing where you had to quit hockey forever' is just dumb.

“It’s okay,” Jonny replies eventually. He’s no longer looking outside, which would be a good thing, except he’s now entirely focused on the napkin in his hands that he’s meticulously shredding into pieces. “It was a long time ago.”

Patrick almost scoffs, because Jonny quit less than two years ago, but he stops himself in time. Jonny and him are buddies now, and if the mere thought of having to quit hockey makes Pat feel like throwing up, he can’t even imagine what actually having to do it did to Jonny.

“Still, Jonny, that’s—”

Jonny throws the decimated napkin on the table. “I’m gonna go,” he forces out, already halfway out of his seat before Pat can even open his mouth. He doesn’t look up on his way through the shop, leaving Pat sitting alone at a table, goggling at the door.

Two days later Pat gets a phone call from the tutoring center to let him know that his tutoring sessions have been cancelled for the foreseeable future, and would he like them to find someone else to fill the slot?

Pat tells the guy on the other end of the line that he’s good for now and settles down on his bed with a carton of ice cream and a stack of DVDs that Saader and Krüger loaned him. His phone is on silent even though he knows his sisters are going to give him hell when he finally gets back to them. Whatever, they can deal; Pat just needs to, God, he doesn’t even know. He needs to get this out of his system, this pissiness about Jonny not telling him and Sharpy not telling him and, just, fuck, _everything_ , because it sucks. They all fucking suck.

It takes three and a half hours, two rom coms and the better part of Crow’s pint of Phish Food before Pat feels like he can handle the situation. He texts Erica back in a (probably fruitless) hope to placate her and pulls up the student searching website. 

Then he devises a plan.

*

Pat waits for Jonny outside his International Politics class on Tuesday afternoon. It sucks because Tuesday is usually gym time, and Pat knows he already got drafted but that’s no reason to let his training slack. And besides, if he’s going to play in the NHL soon, he’s going to need all the bulk he can get.

But the expression on Jonny’s face last week kept Pat up all weekend. A combination of wistfulness, pain, and something that looked an awful lot like fear, Jonny’s face had been a testament of how he’d dealt with being forced to quit hockey. Which is to say, he hadn’t. And yeah, Pat’s got a hideously embarrassing crush on Jonny and yeah, Pat kind of wants to take Jonny to bed and ruin him, but beyond that, the two of them are bros now. They hang for tutoring, sure, but it’s more than that. They’re friends.

And Pat looks out for his friends, whether they want him to or not.

He snags Jonny by the elbow as soon as he sees him, because they may not have known each other for very long, but Pat knows him well enough to be sure that Jonny will skedaddle the moment he sees Pat if he can. So Pat’s not going to let him. Jonny doesn’t look especially surprised to see him, which is oddly gratifying.

“What the fuck,” he enunciates clearly.

Jonny sighs. “Hey, Pat.”

“Don’t you ‘hey, Pat’ me, you asshole!” Pat jabs a finger into Jonny’s chest. “You bailed on me! Canceling our tutoring sessions without even letting me know? What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Jonny says, though he doesn’t sound it.

Pat glares. “You should be. That was cold, dude.”

At this, Jonny looks vaguely sheepish. “I just.” He makes some sort of aborted gesture with his hands and sighs. “Sorry.” This time he does look sorry, and defeated to boot. Pat remembers the last time he saw someone look this defeated—last year after their loss—and he remembers exactly how that felt. 

“Lucky for you,” Pat says magnanimously, “I’ve decided to let you make up for it.”

They end up at the campus coffee shop. Pat’s got juice, but Jonny went all out with some kind of caramel cappuccino whipped cream monstrosity that makes Pat snigger a little just looking at it.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for having a sweet tooth.”

Jonny rolls his eyes and leads the way to a table tucked in the back. It’s not exactly private but the coffee shop isn’t that busy, and besides, they’re hardly going to be swapping state secrets.

“So,” Pat says when they’ve both taken a few sips of their drink and the silence has dragged on long enough. “What’s going on with you and Sharpy?”

Jonny doesn’t flinch, but Pat can tell it’s a near thing. He clenches his fingers around his cup instead. “Nothing.”

Pat rolls his eyes. “I know Sharpy, okay. That wasn’t nothing.” 

Jonny doesn’t reply, slumping further into his seat. He doesn’t look cagey, exactly, the way he had at the Red Pepper where Pat had been able to see him making a run for it coming from miles away. He looks uncomfortable. And sad.

“Look,” Pat says gently, “I’m not trying to, like. Push your buttons or anything, but Jonny, dude, there’s obviously some shit still going on there.”

The guys had given him hell as soon as he got back from the Red Pepper, Sharpy in the lead, and Pat hadn’t really known what to do. They seemed to simultaneously be super pissed at Jonny and want to know everything Pat could remember, which was weird but pretty telling. Pat has a pretty good idea about what had gone down two years ago, but something in him knows it’s necessary for Jonny to talk about it. 

Jonny breathes in deeply. “I don’t even know where to start,” he says.

Pat bites his lip. “What made you decide to quit?”

Immediately there’s a bitter twist around Jonny’s mouth. Pat feels guilty for asking, because it’s a shitty question, but it’s as good a place as any to start. Besides, if he’s going to make Jonny talk about this, and he most definitely is, it’s pretty safe to say the entire topic is going to be shitty.

“I couldn’t remember,” Jonny says. “After that hit in the game against Miami, when I woke up? I couldn’t remember.”

“The hit?”

“Anything.” Pat can’t stop himself from sucking in a breath. Jonny chuckles humorlessly. “Yeah. For a few hours, I had no idea what was happening. I thought I was still in Winnipeg. It was scary as fuck, they had to get my mom on the phone and everything.” He toys with the handle of his mug, still carefully not looking at Pat. “After that, when the doctors told me that it was serious and I could do permanent damage, I listened.”

Pat nudges their shoulders together. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Kaner.”

“I’m not apologizing because it’s my fault, dumbass,” Pat replies, “I’m apologizing because it’s a shitty fucking thing to happen and I’m sorry it happened to you.”

Jonny shrugs. “I fucking loved hockey, you know. I was headed to the big leagues. But after that hit, things just kept getting worse. The doctors said it was rare for someone as young as me not to recover from concussion-related injuries, but the damage was severe and if I continued to play, especially in the NHL, it was gonna get a whole lot worse.”

“So you quit the team.”

“So I quit the team.” Jonny’s expression is an odd combination of sad and wistful. “Sharpy’s probably got a right to be pissed, to be honest. I just. I couldn’t handle it. I was so jealous of them, I hated them for being able to play when I wasn’t and I didn’t exactly hide it either. By the time I got over that, it was too late.”

Pat’s pretty sure from the guys’ reactions it’s not too late at all. He’s equally sure Jonny’s not so much ‘over it’ as he’s repressed a lot of things, as evidenced by the fact that he still hasn’t made up with the team or set foot in a hockey rink since. But that’s okay. Pat can totally fix it.

“They’re not pissed, you know.” 

Jonny looks at him incredulously. “Are you kidding? Come on, Kaner, you were there in the Pepper, you saw Sharpy’s face. He was pissed.”

“Okay,” Pat admits, “maybe they’re a little angry or whatever about your rampant douchebaggery—” he smiles when Jonny can’t suppress a snort, “—but mostly I think they just missed you. Miss you.”

Jonny shrugs and takes another gulp of his drink. “I thought it’d be better to get a clean break. I wasn’t part of the team anymore, so…” He trails off when Pat makes an incredulous noise. “What?”

“How did you get to be a senior when you’re so damn stupid?” Pat demands, slapping Jonny around the head. “Team isn’t just about playing the game, Jonny, you know that. You were the _captain_. You mean to tell me that if a guy was on IR, you’d consider him off the team?”

“Of course not,” Jonny says indignantly. “But I wasn’t on IR, Kaner, I was finished.”

Pat’s surprised he hasn’t strained his eyes yet, what with how often he’s rolling them. “Finished with hockey, yeah. Not finished with having friends.”

Jonny flushes at that but doesn’t respond. Pat sips his juice in the ensuing silence—it’s good, he’s going to have to remember to come here more often—and ponders the situation.

“I know I’m just a lowly sophomore or whatever, but I think you should come by the house. No, don’t make that face,” Pat says quickly, seeing the protests already appearing on Jonny’s lips. “You were there too in the Pepper. Sharpy wasn’t lying when he said they miss you, you know.” Jonny makes a dubious face, but Pat plows on. “And you should come to a game.”

At this, Jonny’s mug that he’d been holding up slightly, probably in an effort to hide behind it, thunks down on the table. “I. No,” he says, probably before he can stop himself if his expression is any indication. “I haven’t been in a rink since I—Kaner, no. I can’t.”

He looks miserable and so panicked that Pat holds up his hands in surrender immediately. He hadn’t expected Jonny to agree, anyway. “Okay. Okay. But, the house?”

After a moment of tense silence, Jonny nods. “Okay.”

*

Jonny does end up coming by the house. Not that same day, which Pat is actually pretty grateful about, because he’s sure there are only so many emotions Jonny can handle in one day and the reunion with the boys is bound to be a pile of feelings. Between Seabs getting sniffly at any given time and Sharpy claiming to have mysterious “allergies” whenever _The Notebook_ gets mentioned, Pat’s actually thinking he should stock up on tissues before the big event.

Jonny decides to come by after practice one night, which is both great and awful because it’s not like he won’t know exactly where they came from. On the other hand, they’ll all be nicely worn out and mellow like you can only be from having been pushed almost to your limit for three hours, which will hopefully keep the more explosive reactions to a minimum.

Pat feels a little like a den mother, setting it all up and worrying about all parties involved. It’s ridiculous. He grumbles about it to Shawsy one night as they’re in the library going over Social Sciences together, but only gets an elbow in his ribs for his trouble.

“Whatever, Kaner, you love the attention, don’t front.”

Pat laughs. “Don’t front? Seriously?”

That earns him another jab, this time in the back. Pat scowls, swearing under his breath about uppity freshmen. Shawsy just grins at him.

It all turns out to be for nothing anyway. The guys pretty much pile onto Jonny the moment he takes a first hesitant step through the door. There’s a fair amount of ribbing throughout the night and there’s at least twenty minutes where Pat can’t find Sharpy, Seabs, Duncs, _or_ Jonny. They all look satisfied when they suddenly appear in the kitchen, though, with a side of gobsmacked in Jonny’s case, so it’s likely everything went well.

Pat smacks Jonny’s hand with a wooden spoon when he tries to steal a piece of tomato. “Hands off, Toews!”

“Ow!” Jonny protests, shaking his hand back and forth and glaring at Pat. “What was that for?”

“He who tries to steal from the omelet supplies pays the price,” Pat says loftily, pulling yet another carton of eggs from the cupboard. Goddamn, these assholes eat a lot.

Jonny sticks around in the kitchen for a while, getting out the plates, and Pat takes a moment to study him. He looks good, Pat thinks. Well, to be fair, Jonny always looks good to Pat, but it’s a different kind of good. Jonny looks content.

Too late, Pat realizes he’s been caught staring. Again. Damnit. He rolls his eyes at Jonny’s smirk, plating up yet another omelet. “So. Good evening?”

Jonny picks up what Pat means pretty much immediately. “Yeah,” he says, and then, after a brief hesitation, he reaches over to squeeze Pat’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No proble—” Pat starts saying cheerfully, turning around. The words die in his mouth, though, because Jonny is standing a lot closer than Pat had been expecting. In fact, Pat has to look up a little to see Jonny’s face, which shouldn’t be as ridiculously hot as it is. Jonny’s wearing a simple V-neck again, long sleeves in deference to the fact that it still gets pretty chilly at night, and his collarbones are suddenly right up in Pat’s vision. Jesus.

Jon’s breath ruffles through Pat’s hair and his eyes seem to get impossibly darker when Pat looks up. He makes a tiny sound when Pat licks his lips and, just for a second, Pat is sure Jonny’s going to lean in and kiss him.

Then he takes a step back, mumbles something Pat can’t decipher, and high-tails it out of the kitchen as if it’s on fire or something. Pat exhales explosively, leaning back against the stove, and wonders what the hell just happened.

*

Pat doesn’t call the tutoring center back, but he’s pretty grateful Jonny agrees to keep working with him. It’s not even so much about the tutoring now as it is about Pat needing a study buddy. His grades are improving still, but he’s still not entirely sure he won’t be scratched for the tournament. He’s already had two midterms, one for English and one for Geography, and he did passingly well on both of them, but he’s got another Econ midterm next week and the due date for his Social Sciences final project is looming.

So Jonny meets him in the library whenever he has the time and they study together. It’s pretty great, actually, because Pat has a terrible tendency to zone out (occasionally while staring at Jonny, occasionally while staring at other things) and Jonny has a tendency to get so lost in his work he forgets to do everything but breathe. Jonny keeps Pat on track and Pat makes Jonny take the occasional break. It works out great, even if occasionally Pat starts thinking about how in a little less than two weeks it’ll be finals week and right after that the national championship starts. The whole thing makes Pat want to hyperventilate. Shit, doing well in college is a lot harder when he actually cares about putting in the work, rather than trusting his cramming skills and dimples will carry him through.

Pat really wants to sign with the Blackhawks next season, is the thing. If this year has shown him anything, it’s that things can change so quickly. He wants to get his foot in the door to the NHL, which means skipping the Hawks’ Rockford affiliate, and if he wants to do that, he’s going to have to get invited to training camp, which means he’d better put on a pretty decent showing during the national championship. Which means he needs to do passably well in all his classes.

All of which leads back to Pat and Jonny in the library.

“Seriously, what asshole decided to put finals week right before the tournament?” Pat moans, head in his hands and elbows on the table. His Social Sciences notes crumple dangerously, but Pat just can’t bring up the energy to be careful right now.

Jonny makes a face. “You did it last year, didn’t you?”

“Ugh, I was a freshman, Jonny,” Pat complains. “That was way different. I didn’t have this stupid project, for one. Hand me those answer sheets?” These case studies are going to be the death of him, he’s sure of it. 

“So, you’ll just work harder this year. You’re close to being finished, right? You’re doing great, you all are.” Jonny gestures around them. Shawsy and Saader are two tables away, working on something Pat can’t identify but involves a lot of heated whispering, and Pat knows for a fact Sharpy, Seabs and Duncs are around somewhere too, heads bent over books and scribbling furiously. He could have sworn none of them studied this much last year, but when he’d mentioned that in the kitchen, Bicks had snorted and Seabs had shot him a dirty look.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he’d said flatly. “Between finals and hockey right after, I barely slept for a month.” He’d clapped Pat on the shoulder on his way out of the kitchen. “Welcome to being a student athlete, dude.”

Pat sighs again. “I know, I know, it’s just. We’re not even sure we’ll make it through Regionals, and Coach keeps telling us to think positive and pushing us and fuck, everybody is thinking about Boston last year, I know they are.” He resists the urge to slam his head on the table repeatedly. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

There’s the sound of a book being slammed closed and then Pat almost yelps when Jonny’s hands fall down on his shoulders, squeezing gently. “Come on, time for a break.”

Pat turns his head, squinting. “What?”

“A break, Kaner. You sound like you could use one.”

Pat is out of his chair and waiting by the door in two seconds flat. He’d be offended at the amused look he gets from Jonny, but he doesn’t care, because he gets to be not studying and not practicing and not being in class. It’s basically all he wants in life at this very moment.

It’s warm outside, not unreasonably so for it only being April, but Pat still has to resist the urge to glare balefully at the clear blue sky. Go figure that the weather would clear up right when they need to buckle down and get studying. Jonny seems to enjoy it, though, judging by the way he turns his face to the sun whenever they’re outside and seems to make an effort to wear as little clothing as possible, much to Pat’s frustration. It’s hard to believe Jonny’s not on the team with them anymore when you look at him. The definition in his shoulders and upper arms alone is obscene enough for Pat’s gaze to linger far more often than it should.

Pat exhales loudly, shaking his head in an effort to clear it, as they stroll away from the library. “Aren’t you Canadian? Don’t you guys live for the cold or something?”

Jonny glares at him balefully. “Canada’s not Siberia, Kaner. And even Siberia has summers.”

“But also a fuckton of snow.”

“Right,” Jonny says skeptically. “Because Buffalo has a Californian climate?”

“Shut up.” Pat says half-heartedly, making a face. Californian climate, yeah right, he fucking wishes. Pat still remembers the pictures Erica sent him a few months ago when Buffalo had that record snowfall and they couldn’t even get out of the house for about twelve hours.

Jonny turns off for the student center. “Ice cream?” 

“Sure.” Pat’s not surprised to see the quad and the green littered with students, some goofing around and others looking over notes or highlighting courses. It’s the first stretch of nice days they’ve had in a while. Studying in the sun, he thinks wistfully. If only Jonny wasn’t such a slave driver, then he could do it too.

“Please,” Jonny snorts, “you’d get distracted two seconds in.”

Pat nods. “Fair enough. Hey, how did that project go that David had, for science class? That was this week, right?”

Jonny’s face lights up immediately. “Yeah,” he replies enthusiastically. “It went really great actually.”

He starts talking about science fairs and David’s inexplicable love for anything that has to do with explosions. Pat genuinely tries to pay attention, but Jonny’s doing that thing again where his entire face becomes animated and Pat is just such a sucker. He hmms and nods in the right places, sure, but he only has a general idea of what Jonny’s talking about, too busy trying not to be obvious in his creepy staring tendencies.

The line at the smoothie and ice cream booth is long enough that Pat briefly thinks about letting it go, but they have a flavored frozen yogurt that’s unreal, he’s never had anything like it. Pat would do a lot for that fro-yo, up to and far beyond standing in line for a bit, and he knows Jonny feels the same. And it’s not like standing in line with Jonny is a hardship.

“So then Jess’s boyfriend—and I knew this was gonna happen because the guy is such an asshole, you know even know—he just looks at Jackie, all seriously and goes ‘But why would I want to go see _girl’s_ volleyball?’” Pat chuckles at Jonny’s outraged noise. “I know, right! From what Erica told me afterwards, Jess looked just about ready to kick him in the nuts.”

“So they broke up?”

“Yes!” Pat says triumphantly. “And good fucking riddance too, what a dick, seriously.”

“You think all guys who even so much as look at your sisters are dicks, Kaner,” Jonny says fondly.

“Whatever, you don’t have sisters, you don’t understand.” Pat sniffs. “Besides, this one was. Who talks down about his girlfriend’s sport, seriously. While she’s standing right the fuck there!”

Jonny’s still grinning when they eventually rock up to the counter, placing his order immediately because he always gets the same because he is the most boring bore ever to bore. “No imagination,” Pat says mournfully to the girl behind the counter while she’s scooping, gratified to receive a giggle in response.

“Right,” Jonny drawls, “because not making anybody wait around for me is clearly a terrible choice. Obviously what I should be doing is staring at the display for ten minutes and then ordering the same thing I did last time.”

Pat sticks out his tongue. “Just for that, I’m changing my order. I’ll have the strawberry fro-yo, please, with chocolate sauce and mixed berries on top.” 

Pat glares when Jonny immediately pulls a couple bills out of his wallet, glare intensifying when he’s clearly waved away. “Dude.”

“My treat,” Jonny insists. “I dragged you from the library, didn’t I?”

“Pfff,” Pat scoffs, “as if I wasn’t angling for a break anyway.”

The girl behind the counter tsks teasingly when she gives Jonny his change. “You’re supposed to be thankful when people give you gifts. God knows I can never get _my_ boyfriend to buy me anything.” 

She’s looking at them cheerfully, which is why it’s even more embarrassing when Pat feels himself flush and Jonny coughs awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Pat. “Um.”

She blinks. “Oh! Uh. Sorry! I didn’t mean to imply. Um.”

Pat forces out a smile. At least she doesn’t seem to know who they are, though he’s never entirely sure these days. “No worries, thanks for the fro-yo, bye now!” He drags Jonny away by the forearm before she can reply, painfully aware of how close the two of them are together in the moments before Jonny untangles himself and takes a step back. His face is still red and his movements are jerky. Pat feels his stomach sink. Surely being mistakes for his boyfriend isn’t _that_ terrible?

“Sorry,” Pat says eventually, if only to break the terribly heavy silence that now hangs between them. He’s not even sure what he’s apologizing for. 

Jonny chuckles clumsily. “That’s okay, uh. Hah. Just a misunderstanding, right?”

“Yeah,” Pat mumbles. “Sure.” He finishes his frozen yogurt quietly and tries not to be aware of their shoulders bumping occasionally as they walk back to the library. 

Neither of them say anything until they’re almost back inside, when Jonny brings up some movie he saw on TV last week. Pat latches onto the subject gratefully and by the time they’re back at their table, it’s almost as if nothing happened.

*

It’s tradition that the hockey team throws a party the weekend before finals start. Usually it’s pretty low-key and none of them drink a lot, for obvious reasons, but this year, Sharpy is determined to turn it into a lavish affair.

“You don’t even _live here_ ,” Pat grouses during yet another ‘planning committee meeting’, because apparently they’ve all regressed right back to high school or something. “Why do you get to make all the decisions?”

Sharpy gives him a judging look. “Because if you were making the decisions, we’d be having nothing but beer and tacos all night,” he says. “Duncs and Seabs probably wouldn’t even bother with that much, and don’t even get me started on the rest of you.” Seabs makes a vaguely insulted noise but Duncs just lifts a shoulder. Sharpy’s not wrong. They can party with the best of them and Pat happens to know that Duncs is a fucking champ at keg stands, but when it comes to planning anything, they lean a lot more in the direction of ‘chill’ than ‘organized’.

Sharpy puts the rookies to work, much to Pat’s dismay because he knows that they have to study too. Then he has to go stick his head in the freezer in an effort to forget he ever had any such thought.

Jonny’s coming, which is a massive concession Pat had to work very hard to get. It’s not that Jonny still avoids the house or anything, because things with the team have mostly been patched up. Yeah, he still winces sometimes and yeah, they still give him shit, but Pat’s pretty sure Jonny finally manning up and facing them has resolved a lot of issues on both sides of that conflict.

But it’s still getting towards the end of the semester and if Pat thought he was busy, Jonny is even worse. Pat doesn’t understand why anyone would want to double major. He’s barely seen Jonny in the last two weeks except when they were studying together, whether it be at the library or at the house. The guys make cooing noises whenever Jonny comes around and they spread their books out all over the dinner table that never gets used. Pat flips them off but they don’t go away until Jonny gives them his best stonefaced glare, which to be honest, is pretty fucking stonefaced.

Jonny had whined and pleaded senior project and essays and finals as excuses for bowing out but it’s not as though they haven’t been working their ass off. Pat’s sure that they’re about as prepared as they can be, so he’d badgered and begged and eventually pulled out the puppy eyes to great success. Jonny had relented and promised to make at least an appearance. Thankfully, all Pat needs is to get him in the door.

Things have been weird between them lately. Pat’s not oblivious and he’s not stupid, no matter what dumb jock stereotype he sometimes lives up to. He knows he’s got a crush on Jonny and he knows that most of the guys in the house are aware of it. They don’t mention it beyond the occasional teasing remarks though, kind of like they don’t mention Pat being bi. Not because they’re in denial or think it’s gross or anything, but mostly because it’s just. It’s a fucking difficult issue, okay.

Pat’s made no secret of wanting to go to the NHL, but being an athlete and being into guys is a difficult combination, something the guys are all pretty well-aware of—which, Pat suspects, is the reason they don’t bring it up. Who really wants to have that ‘so what are you and your seriously gay crush going to do once you get to the NHL and the national spotlight’ conversation?

Pat just doesn’t know if _Jonny_ is aware of the way Pat kind of wants to climb into his pants and never leave. Jonny can be pretty oblivious and beyond that, he doesn’t give a lot away. If he’s had hookups or dated someone, he hasn’t told Pat about it.

But Jonny’s never been a touchy-feely kind of person, except with Pat apparently. He brushes their shoulders together, clasps Pat by the forearm, hip checks him while they’re walking or squeezes him gently in the neck. He’s never done anything about Pat’s unfortunate staring habit beyond smirk and raise the occasional eyebrow, but these days he flushes or clears his throat or looks away. And Pat doesn’t even want to think about what happened when that girl mistook them for a couple. It’s infuriating because it could mean all sorts of things. It could mean that Jonny’s into him, sure, but it could also mean that Jonny’s embarrassed about Pat being so obvious but too Canadian to say so.

Whatever the reason for Jonny’s weirdness, the party is the perfect cover to figure out what’s going on and fix it. The house’ll be busy, the guys will be distracted and nobody will be studying. Pat’s got one mission—okay, one mission besides not thinking about finals for the whole fucking evening—and it’s to figure out what the hell is going on with Jonny.

*

Pat is still on his first beer when Jonny walks through the door, though that isn’t saying much. What with the playoffs starting soon, Coach Sekler had given them a lecture that is probably still ringing in everybody’s ears. 

It’s a good night, not balmy the way summer nights get but not nearly as cold as spring can be. Pat loves winter because it means ice and snow and hockey, but if summer means he gets to see Jonny in T-shirts like the one he’s sporting tonight, bring on the fucking sunshine.

It takes him a few minutes to work through the crowd to where Jonny is grinning at some story Seabs is telling about a professor Jonny knows.

“You came!” Pat crows, plastering himself all over Jonny’s back, eliciting a grin.

“I said I would, didn’t I? I can’t stay too long, but—”

“Oh, shut up,” Pat interrupts, shoving a beer in Jonny’s hands. “Don’t worry, we’ll have you back in bed before you turn into a pumpkin.”

“It’s not Cinderella that turns into a pumpkin, Kaner, don’t you know your classics?” 

They end up on the couch in the living room with a few of the guys, discussing the finer points of college and the NHL and last week’s episode of _Lost_. Pat’s having a great time, though he makes sure to keep an eye out for any of Jonny’s pained hockey faces. He seems okay, though, leaning back and arguing vehemently with Saader about… fashion? Pat is almost tempted to listen in, except then Steeger tries to argue a point about Teemu Selänne that’s just completely fucking wrong and Pat jumps right in to tell him so.

He’s still bickering when Jonny drags himself away from where they’d been pressed together from shoulder to knee. “I need another beer,” he announces, and disappears into the kitchen. It’s not until Pat’s properly deconstructed every sad argument Steeger brings up and schooled Krügs on the finer details of the Western Conference standings that Pat looks up and notices that it’s been a while and Jonny still hasn’t returned. The house has gotten a lot busier too, people crowding in the living room and hall as far as he can see.

Pat groans when he pulls himself out of the couch. This is going to be a bitch to clean up. Fucking Sharpy, seriously.

Jonny isn’t anywhere near the hall or the living room that Pat can see, though there’s so many people, he could be missing something. Ladder is in charge of the music and he has something loud and heavy on the bass thumping. It feels like pretty much everyone in the house is trying to get his attention, snagging his sleeve or slugging him in the shoulder. UND knows their hockey and at first it had been majorly cool, strutting all over campus like a celebrity or something, but by now it’s mostly gotten annoying. Pat almost punches Hammer in the face when he jumps on Pat’s back without a warning.

Nonetheless, Pat’s giggling uncontrollably by the time he stumbles in the kitchen, still in search of Jonny but now also looking for refreshments. It’s thirsty work, hosting a party. He almost crows when finds Jonny, but stops short when he notices the expression on his face.

Jonny is standing in a corner of the kitchen with some guy that Pat doesn’t recognize, still holding his empty beer. His expression is not unpleasant, exactly, but Pat’s seen enough of Jonny’s blank faces by now to be able to read them and this one isn’t broadcasting “I am really enjoying this conversation.”

Against his better judgment, Pat steps back. There’s plenty of people in the kitchen, however less busy it might be, and it’s easy enough to melt back in the shadows where Jonny can’t see him. Not a minute later, Pat regrets the decision. An unpleasant feeling lurches in Pat’s gut when he sees the guy leaning in, far more into Jonny’s personal space than is okay or than Jonny usually allows, sliding his hand around Jonny’s waist with an expression that can only be defined as predatory.

This is—Fuck, Pat thinks, stomach sinking down to his toes. He’d been right about him and Jonny. There had been something. And at the same time, he’d been so, so wrong. He makes to push his way out of the kitchen, but before he can, Jonny takes a step back from the guy, now visibly scowling. The guy’s face hardens as he pushes his way back into Jonny’s space, but this time Jonny’s ready for him, shoving him back with surprising vehemence. Pat can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise, but it’s obvious it’s not a pleasant conversation from the wild gestures and glaring that’s happening on both sides.

Things come to a head before Pat can fully comprehend the situation. The guy is smirking by now, mean and bitter. He says something that even Pat can tell is harsh. In response, Jonny bursts forward and shoves him against the fridge. He’s got one hand fisted in the guy’s shirt and the other drawn back. It genuinely looks like he’s about to punch the guy in the face, which is when Seabs bursts into the kitchen and latches onto Jonny’s arm as if his life depends on it, Duncs and Crow following in not too long after. Duncs grabs a hold of the other guy’s arm and leads him out of the room with a grip that Pat can see even from a distance is unnecessarily hard.

Seabs and Jonny, meanwhile, are standing by the sink, talking quietly. Jonny seems to slump yet again, and Seabs looks sympathetic. Pat has never been so confused in his life, his mind churning as conversation, which had dropped when Jonny slammed the guy against the fridge, picks back up again.

He nudges Crow, who’s still standing at the edge of the room. “What’s going on? Who was that guy?”

Crow doesn’t look like he’s fooled by Pat’s innocent act at all. He doesn’t say anything about it, though. “Tommy?”

“I guess, I don’t know, is that the guy Jonny almost beat up just now?”

Crow shoots him an indecipherable look. “Yeah. He’s Jonny’s ex-boyfriend.”

Pat gapes. “He’s—I’m sorry, he’s _what_?”

Now Crow is looking at him as though Pat is talking gibberish. “He’s Jonny’s ex-boyfriend?” He’s talking slow, elongating the word as though Pat doesn’t understand what it means, which in this situation, Pat’s not entirely sure he does.

“What the fuck,” Pat splutters indignantly. “Jonny’s gay?” 

“Bisexual,” Crow says absentmindedly, gazing at the back door through which Duncs has reappeared. He’s scowling again, too. “Don’t know what the fuck he was thinking, coming here as if he’d be welcome after—” He stops mid-sentence, turns around and stares at Pat incredulously. “Wait, hold on, you didn’t _know_?” 

“I, uh. I mean.” Pat flushes. “No?” Crow’s narrowed eyes really shouldn’t look as intimidating as they do. “It never came up!”

Crow raises a single eyebrow. “It never came up.”

Pat’s pretty sure his face is about the color of a fire engine right now. Stupid traitorous pale complexion. Stupid crush that is visible from space. So what if he didn’t know? Okay, so it’s not that much of a stretch and Pat is mostly indignant he had to find out like this, but still. It’s not as if him and Jonny have shared _every_ secret. Pat hasn’t told Jonny he’s bisexual after all, and loads of other things besides. And, well.

“I didn’t want to ask,” he mumbles out eventually, telling himself he’s not cowering. He’s _not_. 

Judging from the way Crow’s expression softens, the ‘and find out he’s straight’ that Pat is choosing not to say has been heard loud and clear. “Well, now you know,” he says pragmatically, and jerks his head to where Jonny is scowling and pushing his way out of the room. “I’m guessing that’s your cue, buddy.”

Pat finds Jonny in one of the bedrooms upstairs, Saader’s from the look of it, tugging a jacket out from a truly enormous pile on Saader’s bed. “Hey, no, you can’t leave,” he blurts out.

Jonny’s shoulder slump ever so slightly, but he doesn’t stop putting the jacket on. “Sorry, Kaner,” he says without turning around. “I’m beat.”

“It’s not even midnight yet!”

Jonny shrugs, looking a million times more tired than when he’d just arrived. Fucking Tommy, Pat thinks meanly, and makes a mental note to find out exactly what happened there.

“Sorry, Kaner. I’ll text you, okay?”

He’s almost out the door by the time Pat manages to form a coherent sentence. “You shouldn’t let one asshole ex ruin your party.”

Jonny freezes in the doorway for a few moments, turning around slowly. “What?”

Pat holds up his hands. “I was in the kitchen, I, uh. I saw you two.” He bites his lip. “Crow filled me in.”

Jonny sighs, closing his eyes. “Of course he did.”

“Look, it doesn’t—” Pat gestures vaguely. “It doesn’t matter, does it? So your ex is a dick, I mean. Whose isn’t, to be honest?”

A wry smile plays around the corner of Jonny’s mouth. “Are you trying to cheer me up?”

Pat rocks on the balls of his feet. “Is it working?” He grins when Jonny shrugs but steps back into the room. “Sweet.”

It’s not until they’re both lounging on Saader’s truly miniscule couch that Pat feels brave enough to ask. “So, uh. What happened with him?”

Jonny, to his credit, doesn’t cringe. Much. “What didn’t,” he says.

There’s only one light on in the room, over by Saader’s desk, and it’s thrown Jonny’s face into a sharp profile. It’s probably the two beers that Pat has already had, but he can’t help but think Jonny has never looked more gorgeous.

“Bad break-up?” he asks quickly, clenching his hands together and trying to distract himself. Fuck. Fuck, Jonny has an ex- _boyfriend_. Pat’s been crushing on him pretty much the better part of the semester and Jonny’s fucking bisexual and Pat is up here, the two of them tucked away in Saader’s room with Jonny looking like some kind of apparition from Pat’s most embarrassing fantasies. What the hell was he _thinking_?

Thankfully, Jonny hasn’t noticed. He hasn’t looked at Pat much at all actually, head down and focused on his hands. “You could say that.” He presses his lips together. “He cheated on me, for one thing. Multiple times.”

“Ugh, what a dick.”

The obvious venom in Pat’s words startles a laugh out of Jonny. “Yeah,” he agrees. “He kind of was.”

There’s only one thing for it. “You know what this situation calls for, my friend?” Pat says, slinging a companionable arm around Jonny’s shoulders. “Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.”

“Finals start in two days,” Jonny points out.

“Exactly! Plenty of time to get over a hangover.” Pat laughs when Jonny’s face contorts in a clearly disapproving frown. “Okay, okay, fine, no hangovers. Let’s just get you another beer and go from there, yeah?”

The guys cheer when the two of them reappear in the kitchen, and Shawsy has them hooked up with new drinks within seconds. Pat accepts gratefully, tugging a mildly reluctant Jonny along quickly enough to escape Sharpy and Seabs’ respectively knowing and concerned looks.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about it, except for how it kind of is. He doesn’t know if Sharpy and the other guys had assumed Pat was aware of Jonny’s past relationships like Crow, or if they’d purposefully not mentioned it for some reason, and he doesn’t really want to know. At least not right now, when there’s Jonny and the party and finals and the national championship. And besides, Pat’s had enough embarrassing talks about his feelings with his teammates to last him a lifetime, thanks. He’s not looking to add more.

Time passes in jumps and starts after that, and the next time he looks up, him and Jonny are on a couch that is inexplicably in the kitchen. The room is deserted and the house as a whole is a lot quieter now, though Pat doesn’t notice at first due to Jonny’s impassioned declaration of the importance of properly preparing for a television marathon. Pat’s pretty sure he was properly fascinated up until a second ago, which is a good indication he’s a lot more tipsy that he’d intended to be. Judging from the way Jonny is swaying back and forth in time with his own animated gestures, he’s even more gone.

“Hey.” Pat elbows Jonny in the side. “Why won’t you come to our games?”

He knows before the words have even left his mouth that it’s not a good thing to say, but by then it’s too late. Jonny does a weird kind of jump and then scoots back, visibly tense. He hasn’t gotten up and removed himself from the conversation though, unlike every other time Pat brought it up, which is surely some kind of progress.

“I can’t,” Jonny mumbles out eventually. “I just. I can’t, Kaner. It’s too hard.” He sounds sad, which would normally be enough for Pat to change the subject posthaste, because who can handle a sad Jonny, seriously. Not Pat, that’s for sure. It’s different this time, though. Or maybe it’s just that the few beers running through his system aren’t doing his already poor impulse control any favors.

“It’d be cool, though,” he presses. “The championship is coming up and the guys, I mean.” Pat hesitates. “We miss our captain.”

“I was never your captain.”

Pat bites his lip. “Same difference, though, isn’t it?”

They’re quiet for a while. Pat opens his mouth several times in an attempt at conversation, but he never quite makes it. Jonny does, though he’s not looking at Pat when he starts talking.

“I tried, you know. When I was cleared and thought I’d be okay with the noise and everything.”

Pat looks at him dumbly. “They never said.”

Jonny exhales noisily. “They don’t know. And besides, I didn’t stay long. It was too hard, seeing them play.”

“It’s different now, though. You hang out with us.”

Jonny looks at him. “At the house, yeah. Where there’s no hockey.” He gestures around clumsily. “I never lived here.” His face goes through a series of complicated expressions, eventually settling on melancholy. “I already freaked out once in a rink, okay, Kaner? Don’t want to do it again.”

Pat bumps their shoulders together, only a little bit unsteady. “Okay.”

“And you know what the worst thing was? I thought that if I couldn’t have hockey, at least I could have a boyfriend, you know? Except then that didn’t happen either.” Jonny’s slurring slightly. It’s probably the cutest Pat’s ever seen him, which is saying something.

“You can, though. Just because you picked the wrong guy once, doesn’t mean you’re doomed to be single forever.”

Jonny snorts, and Pat’s not sure if it’s the alcohol, the fact that they’re alone or the courage that he’s been trying to gather up all night but something about the moment makes him feel brave.

“At least you’ve had a boyfriend?” His tone is light, but Jonny tenses next to him anyway. “Wouldn’t mind one of those. I’ve never even made it that far, boy or girl.”

Jonny peers at him. “Boyfriend?” Pat shrugs. Jonny blinks. “Huh.” Then he smiles, genuine and a little goofy, and nudges their shoulders together. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Sure,” Pat teases. “It’s not like you’ll remember this in the morning, right?” He tries to ignore the tiny kernel of disappointment lodged in his gut. He wasn’t expecting big dramatics or anything, but still. It’d be nice to hear something other than ‘huh’ when you tell your enormous crush you’re into dudes too.

Jonny makes an indignant noise. “Will too!”

“Uhu. Come on, it’s late and we got finals next week. You crashing here?”

Jonny makes a distracted, affirmative noise and Pat can’t heIp a fond smile. It’s a good end to a good night, douchey ex-boyfriends revelations aside, which is probably why he lets his guard down and decides to get Jonny set up in his room. He’s got a spare mats and the couch in the living room, while comfortable, is a torture device to sleep on. 

It’s not until Jonny’s carelessly stripping in Pat’s room that he realizes his mistake. He’s so busy trying not to look and berating himself for the stupid move that he doesn’t even notice Jonny’s stumbling until a heavy weight hits him in the side and Pat tumbles onto his bed, Jonny falling right on top of him.

“Hi,” Pat says stupidly, once he’s regained his breath. 

Jonny’s just looking at him, eyes dark and soft. “You never said. About boyfriends.”

Pat tenses. “Well, you didn’t ask, did you?” He’s torn between pushing Jonny away and pulling him closer. God, this was a terrible idea, how did they get into this position? “Jonny…”

“I didn’t think I could,” Jonny says quietly. He hasn’t moved since they landed, pressing Pat down into the mats with his considerable bulk. One of his hands is next to Pat’s head, dangerously close to his ear, and the other is on Pat’s shoulder. 

Jonny’s eyes are roaming Pat’s face and Pat seriously doesn’t know what to do. Jonny’s never been so close before, close enough that if Pat lifted his head but a little, he could press his lips right on the juncture of Jonny’s chin. It’s all he can do to stop himself.

“Jonny,” he breathes, “what are you—” He’s cut off when Jonny lowers his head and nuzzles their faces together.

“Pat,” he’s saying nonsensically. “Pat, I want to—Please, I want to. Can I?”

“Can you what?”

He’ll never know what Jonny was asking for, because the next thing Jonny does is shift his mouth to Pat’s throat and kiss him wetly. Pat gasps, hands clenching where they’ve been hanging on to Jonny’s T-shirt all this time, and tilts his head back automatically.

“Fuck,” he groans.

Jonny chuckles against his skin. “Been wanting to do that for _ages_.”

“Really?” Pat says breathlessly, “because you had me fooled. Jonny—”

“Always with the dumb T-shirts, Kaner.” Jonny mouths down carefully. “And your fucking collarbones, I swear.” 

He stumbles slightly over his words and that, if anything, is what makes Pat pause. And then push Jonny away slightly. “Jonny, I—This is a terrible idea.”

“No, it’s not,” Jonny hums against Pat’s skin. The vibrations are slight but they still go straight to Pat’s cock. It’s not helping his already excessively clouded judgment.

“It is,” Pat says, forcing his voice to be level, “you’re—you’re drunk.”

Jonny leans back. His face is flushed and his mouth is a little more red than it was before and Pat only barely stops a groan from slipping out. 

“Not that drunk,” he says slowly.

Pat arches an eyebrow. “Drunk enough to be slurring.”

“Not too drunk to do this,” Jonny counters, and drags his lips over Pat’s cheek to his ear, tracing the shell with his tongue. “Or this,” he whispers, sinking his teeth briefly in Pat’s earlobe and then tracing a path down his neck.

Pat shivers. “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

“No,” Jonny says firmly against Pat’s skin. “I won’t.” He sounds so honest and so sure, God, Pat really wants to believe him. Jonny’s warm on top of him, but not too heavy, and Pat is more than half-hard from the proximity already. Well, that and the kissing.

Still he looks away. “I don’t want this to be just a hook-up, and things are, y’know. Complicated.”

He’d been expecting a flinch or for Jonny to draw back, but instead what he gets is Jonny nudging their hips together, making them both gasp. Jonny’s clearly farther along than Pat is, dick hard against the curve of Pat’s thigh. “I don’t care,” he says fiercely, “I just. It’s not just a hook-up, Pat, you _know_ , can I just, fuck, please will you just let me _kiss you_?”

He presses even closer than before, tilting their foreheads together and looking more attractive than Pat’s ever seen him, hopeful and desperate in turns and it’s, fuck, it’s too much. Pat’s done being reasonable, done trying to resist when what he’s been wanting all semester has just been thrown in his lap, literally.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, and pushes their mouths together.

Jonny kisses exactly the way Pat thought he might, confident and oh so purposeful. It makes Pat feel weak in the knees, thankful that they’re already lying down, even more so when Jonny pulls back and then pushes down again, aligning their cocks perfectly for maximum friction. That alone is enough to get Pat fully hard and pushing back.

“Jonny,” he groans, hands scrabbling over Jonny’s back restlessly, rolling his hips in time with the rhythm Jonny’s set up. “Shit, I want to blow you.”

The noise Jonny makes is borderline obscene, zinging through Pat’s gut like a punch. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Yeah, do it.”

It takes a few seconds of tangled up limps and clothes that get in the way but eventually their positions are reversed. Jonny’s lost his shirt along the way and he’s spread out on Pat’s bed like a fucking underwear model, with those abs and those goddamn cut hips that almost make Pat salivate. “Fuck you, how are you still so ripped?”

Jonny smirks, which is clearly unacceptable. Thankfully, Pat knows exactly how to go about fixing it, and Jonny’s moan when Pat latches onto his nipples is gratifying to say the least. “Shut up, the guys’ll hear.”

“I really don’t care,” Jonny pants. “C’mon, Kaner, fuck, you’re killing me.” Pat smirks, pressing down harder where his hand had been sneaking into Jonny’s underwear. They’re both out of breath by now and Pat’s gone from half-hard to almost leaking in his underwear in barely any time at all. Judging from the spot that’s revealed on his boxers when Pat pulls his jeans down, Jonny’s the same. It’d be embarrassing if Pat could spare any brain power at all to care.

“You can’t rush genius, buddy.” Jonny makes a face, but it’s wiped away clean when Pat wiggles down and pulls Jonny’s boxers down. His dick springs loose, hard and red and almost begging for it. Pat is only more than happy to oblige. “I’m going to blow your mind,” he says slyly. Jonny’s dismayed groan is cut off midway when Pat swoops down and sucks the head into his mouth.

He’s not an expert at giving head, but it’s not his first time. Pat’s done it enough to know he doesn’t hate it, not at all, and this time it’s even better because it’s _Jonny_. Jonny, who’s almost whimpering, arm shoved over his mouth in an attempt to muffle his sounds. Jonny, who’s struggling to keep his hips still as Pat bobs up and down; who’s so responsive to the littlest changes it only turns Pat on even more.

He pulls off with a pop, keeping his hand around the base, tight enough to be felt but loose enough that it’s not going to do it for Jonny. He knows how he wants to make Jonny come and it’s not with his hands. “You’re doing so good, baby,” he croons. “God, you should see yourself, Jonny.”

“Fuck,” Jonny forces out, “Kaner, you’re such an asshole, _shit_ , don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Jonny jerks when Pat drops back down, moaning loud enough that Pat is sure everyone in the house can hear. He can’t bring himself to care, focussing instead on pushing Jonny, playing him like an instrument. Jonny’s cursing now, whining fractured protests every time Pat backs off when he can tell Jonny’s getting close.

He’s been reduced to incoherent sounds when Pat finally goes to town, bobbing up and down, sucking as hard as he can while his one hand cups Jonny’s balls and his other presses down on the sweet spot behind them.

Jonny makes a punched out noise, arches off the bed and comes hard enough for Pat to splutter and almost choke in it.

He’s still spitting in a convenient tissue from the box on his nightstand when Jonny opens his eyes, languid and come-dumb and Pat was wrong, obviously _this_ is the most gorgeous Jonny’s ever been, fuck.

He whines when he gets a hand on his own dick, fumbling through layers of underwear and jeans that he doesn’t even know why he’s still wearing. It’s not going to take long, shit, even just the thought of the way Jonny’d looked seconds ago is enough to make Pat bite his lip hard in an effort to stifle his moan.

“Yeah,” Jonny murmurs, and moments later there’s another hand joining his. Jonny’s a firm presence next to him, gently pushing him down on his back and taking over. Pat fists his hands in the sheets at the sight of Jonny’s gorgeously tanned, big hands on his dick, trying not to blow his load then and there. He can’t even count the times that he’s thought about this while jerking off, but the reality is so much better than anything he could have dreamed up.

“Come on, Kaner,” Jonny says softly. “Come on, you’re so good, do it, come on.”

He’s still handling Pat with sure movements, hands twisting in patterns that are almost enough to make Pat see stars, but he’s not looking down. He’s looking at Pat’s face instead, eyes almost hungry, and Pat can’t look away. Not until he can feel his orgasm tingling up, all the way down to his toes.

“Jonny,” he keens, squeezing his eyes shut, “Jonny, I’m gonna— _Fuck_.”

Jonny doesn’t stop and with something that almost sounds like a sob, Pat spills himself all over Jonny’s hand.

Jonny’s flopped down next to him when Pat comes down, wiping his hand on the sheets. Pat wrinkles his nose.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” he mumbles, fighting down a yawn. 

Jonny rolls his eyes. “I’ll clean it up in the morning, whatever.”

“Hmmmm.” Pat’s too tired to come up with proper words, but he nods, or at least tries to. He chucks off his jeans easily and latches on to Jonny’s arm, pulling him closer. “Stay?”

The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is Jonny’s warmth and a comfortable weight settling against his back.

*

When Pat wakes up in the morning, Jonny’s gone and there’s a note on the bedside table, hastily scribbled and barely legible. _I’m sorry,_ it says. _I can’t_.


	3. Chapter 3

Finals arrive in a tizzy of frustration, screaming matches, and a physical ache that Pat had previously assumed only tournament hockey could bring. He’s mostly a bystander, sticking to his room when he can and the library when he can’t, but he hears the guys throw down more than once. At one point, he’s pretty sure Steeger is bellowing loud enough that the windows are rattling.

Pat just bends over his textbooks and keeps going, trying to ignore the panic that has been steadily creeping in, threatening to come up and choke the air out of his lungs. He’d been sure he was on the right track, studying and everything, and his grades have never been better. But all his subjects suddenly feel foreign, the syllabi unwieldy and the simplest constructs that he’s had down for weeks abruptly don’t make any sense anymore. 

He’s hunched over his Geography texts on Thursday, atlas and laptop open at the same time, when Seabs knocks on the doorframe. “Hey, Kaner. How’s it going?”

Pat looks up tiredly. “Been better, been worse. What’s up?”

“Duncs is ordering pizza. Want some?”

Pat makes a face. “Cheese and carbs,” he says doubtfully.

“It’s fucking finals week. Live a little.”

Pat tries to smile, but it’s harder than he anticipated. “I’ll be down soon. Just want to finish this bit.”

Seabs shoots him another look but relents quickly enough, stomping down the stairs. Pat can hear him shouting about toppings before he’s even reached the ground floor.

He thunks his head on the desk. It’s been two weeks since he’s heard of Jonny. He’s pretty sure all the guys know what happened at the party, down to the way Jonny hightailed it out of there. Nobody has mentioned it, beyond a few worried looks. Pat’s not sure if he’s grateful for that or not.

His notes crinkle underneath his head, papers fluttering as Pat exhales noisily, wondering for the millionth time what Jonny is doing. If he’s studying, if he’s eating properly and taking enough breaks. If there’s someone around to knock on his doorframe and ask if he wants pizza.

If he’s as miserable as Pat is.

“Stop it, asshole,” Pat mutters to himself, and gets up clumsily. His back pops when he stretches, complaining noisily about having been in the same position for so long.

There’s no point in thinking about it anyway, it’s pretty unlikely their paths will cross again. Jonny’s off to grad school after this semester, in a place that isn’t likely to be North Dakota, and Pat’s been e-mailing back-and-forth with scouts and knows there’s a spot in the Blackhawks’ training camp waiting for him in Chicago. If he plays well this tournament.

The kitchen is busy when Pat finally makes it downstairs half an hour later. The pizza’s arrived already, God bless campus delivery, and everybody seems to be stuffing their face whilst at the same time trying to talk over each other. It’s a cacophony that on any other day would have made Pat grin and jump right in. Right now, it just makes his head hurt.

He snags a slice of pepperoni and a slice of the veggie special and takes them into the living room where it's at least marginally less crowded. Sharpy and Abby are lounging on the couch, though, which would have been enough to make Pat turn tail, except they’ve already seen him.

He avoids Abby’s expectant look and drops down on the lounger. “Don’t you two have your own place?”

“Whoa,” Sharpy gasps. “He speaks!”

Pat doesn’t bother rolling his eyes. “Shut up.”

“You’ve been pretty quiet lately, though,” Abby says conversationally. “Holed up with your books in your room or the library.”

“Some of us have finals they actually need to pass, you know,” Pat replies half-jokingly. It falls flat when Sharpy gives him a look. It’s not fair anyway; the two of them probably study more than everybody in his house combined, Pat included. It’s easier to try and piss them off, though. At least then they won’t interrogate him, because he really doesn’t want to talk about his feelings right now.

Unfortunately, Sharpy knows him better than that. “Weak, Peeksy,” he says. “It’s like you’re not even trying anymore.” 

Pat flicks a stray piece of pepperoni over to the love seat. It misses by a mile but elicits a soft smile from the both of them. Pat’s almost sure he’s safe from further questions, which is of course when Sharpy continues.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Jonny broke your heart.”

Pat flinches badly enough that the half-eaten crust from one of his slices tumbles to the floor. He hears a sharp intake from their direction, but he doesn’t know if it’s Abby or Sharpy. Pat wouldn’t look up right now if you paid him. “I gotta go,” he says eventually. His cheeks are heated and he doesn’t even want to think about what’s written all over his face.

“Patrick,” Abby starts, but he brushes by them before she can finish the sentence, running up the stairs as fast as he can without drawing further attention to himself.

Less than half an hour later, there’s yet another knock on Pat’s door. Pat sighs. It was probably stupid to think he’d get away unscathed.

Abby looks apologetic when he opens, but she steps past him determinedly.

“Please, come in,” Pat snarks.

Abby just frowns, sinking down on his bed. “I didn’t think you were that serious.”

Pat sighs as he sits down. “I really don’t want to talk about this, you understand?”

“Then you probably should have been better at hiding how much it’s bothering you, Pat. Did you think we’d just leave it alone?”

“Yeah, I did, actually, on account of _it’s none of your business_.”

Abby’s face is the definition of unimpressed. “You’re our friend, you idiot, and you’ve been walking around like someone stole your skates for two weeks now. All you do is study, sleep, and play hockey.” Her expression softens. “Patrick’s worried. We all are.”

She’s not wrong, is the problem, so there’s not much Pat can do to deny her words. He doesn’t know why Jonny leaving is weighing on him so much. They only slept together the once, after all. Hell, Pat’s not even known him for a whole semester.

But there was just something about them. They _fit_ together. Even when they were shouting at each other, arguing over anything and everything, they just worked. Pat’s room feels empty without Jonny’s presence and he can’t even count the times that he’s looked up in the library recently to share a grin with Jonny, only to be confronted with an empty seat. Pat misses Jonny’s acerbic humor, misses the way he could take a complex theory that had seemed staggeringly difficult in class and explain it so that it’s crystal-clear within minutes. And yeah, maybe he misses the way Jonny used to look at him, those last few weeks, his eyes dark, staring like Pat was every kind of temptation in the world, rolled up into one.

They had made sense together, the two of them, and Pat hadn’t realized how important that feeling was to him until it wasn’t there anymore.

“He didn’t break my heart,” he forces out eventually, no longer avoiding Abby’s patient gaze. Embarrassingly, his voice sort of wobbles at the end.

“Oh, Pat,” Abby says sympathetically, and holds out her arms. It feels pathetically great to let himself be enveloped, especially since Abby gives the most amazing hugs. “What happened?”

Pat tells her. Turns out they didn't know everything that happened the night of the party, judging from her surprised noise when Pat gets to the part where Jonny kissed him. She growls when he tells her about the note in the morning, which would have been hilarious under any other circumstances. Right now Pat can barely dredge up a smile.

She kisses him on the top of his head when he’s done. “I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t break my heart,” Pat reiterates, his voice thankfully steady this time. “But I miss him, Abs.”

She doesn’t reply except to tighten the embrace around him.

Pat feels lighter when she finally leaves, even if he doesn’t necessarily feels better. But it’s nice to know that he’s not the only one who thinks that what Jonny pulled was a dick move. The list of example questions for his Geography final doesn’t seem quite so daunting now, and when Sharpy clumps up the stairs and settles on Pat’s bed with his books without so much as a by-your-leave, Pat feels like his smile is genuine for the first time in days.

*

Pat rocks through finals week the way he rocks through a particularly grueling hockey game: by keeping his head and doing the best he can, focusing on what’s happening and not thinking about the past or the future. As far as coping strategies go, it works surprisingly well. He makes it through the Geography final without any blaring panic, and the Social Sciences case studies are almost easy. Almost.

It’s Econ 202 that he’s really worried about. He feels unsettled without Jonny there to help him revise, and pissed at himself for being unsettled. It’s his last final, the last hurdle before the team hunkers down and preps for Regionals and, if all goes well, the Frozen Four after that. Pat is stupidly nervous. He twitches when Duncs and Seabs clap him on the shoulder and wish him luck before departing for their own exams, quickly going back to leafing through the stack of notes he’d accumulated over the semester.

When his phone buzzes, he doesn’t check it immediately, assuming it’s Sharpy or Abby wishing him good luck. He almost chokes on his cereal when he finally pulls his phone out. _Good luck today, you’ll ace it_ , it says, but the text isn’t from Sharpy or Abby.

It’s from Jonny.

Abruptly, Pat’s nervousness falls away to a wash of anger. _Fuck u_ , he types in return, fingers hovering over the send button. In the end he deletes the whole thing, and goes to take his last final.

When he walks out of the lecture hall, Sharpy’s there waiting for him. Pat grins thankfully.

“So?”

“Dunno,” Pat says thoughtfully. “But I feel like I passed?”

Sharpy hoots. “Good enough for me! Let’s celebrate!”

“We start Regionals soon,” Pat points out, but he can’t stop a laugh from bubbling out. 

Sharpy makes a dismissive noise, already hunched over his phone to text presumably everybody they know. “Finals are over!” He looks up, slightly misty-eyed. “Your last finals ever, Peeksy.”

Pat doesn’t sniff. He _doesn’t_. “Shut up,” he says, hitting Sharpy in the shoulder. “Where are we going and who else is in?”

It’s a low down affair, most of the team and some friends hanging out at the house. Some guys are playing beer pong, though Pat notices happily that none of the team are, and it looks like there’s some kind of video game tournament going on. Pat squints over at the TV and giggles when Saader runs Princess Peach off the track and into the starry abyss.

He feels good enough, in fact, to fish his phone out of his pocket, thumbing back to the text message he never replied to. Jonny’s words stare back at him, but somehow they don’t piss him off the way they did this morning.

 _Thx_ , he types out, _wnt well i thnk_

His phone buzzes again within seconds. _I’m glad._

Pat stares at his phone confusedly, which proves to be a mistake when Sharpy snatches it out of his hands with a grin. “What’s this, then, Peeksy, who’re you texti—” He stops abruptly, face clouding over. 

“Give me back my phone, Sharpy,” Pat says, trying to sound casual enough that the rest of the guys won’t clue in. 

Sharpy does, however reluctantly, but Pat knows he’s not off the hook yet. “He’s been _texting_ you?”

“Just today.”

Sharpy’s eyes narrow and Pat tries valiantly not to slump. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate Sharpy being on his side, because he does, but Pat barely even knows how he feels over this entire mess himself. The last thing he wants to do is drag the team into it. There’s been enough turmoil about Jonathan Toews in the house recently.

“Drop it, okay?”

The incredulity on Sharpy’s face would be hilarious if Pat wasn’t so, fuck, he doesn’t even know what he is. “Drop it? Pat, he—”

“I know,” Pat cuts in, voice low and hard. “I know, okay? I was there. And I’m asking you to drop it.” He drops his game winning argument. “For the championship, at least.”

Sharpy doesn’t stop frowning at him for the whole night, but he hands Pat back his phone and doesn’t mention it, which is probably the best possible outcome. He was feeling good, though, and now he isn’t anymore, and that sucks.

 _u shld still come 2 a game_ , he texts Jonny spitefully before he drops into bed that night. He doesn’t get a reply.

*

Regionals are a fucking mess. Pat doesn’t know what the fuck the problem is, because they’ve been on fire this season, owning every play and winning almost every game. Pat’s pretty sure they’ve posted a record amount of shutouts.

It doesn’t seem to matter, though. Pat feels stilted. He’s not doing nearly as well as he could and it’s disappointing. There are scouts here, there are Blackhawks people here, his _family_ is here, and Pat is dropping the ball.

They play Princeton in the semifinals and what should have been a great game turns into a shit show of epic proportions that they only win due to some spectacular goaltending from Crow’s part. When Seabs scores the game winner in overtime, a dirty goal after a pile-up in front of the net, Pat hasn’t put up a single point.

He did the best he could, but it’s not good enough. At least he doesn’t fuck up so bad that he gets a lecture from the Coach Sekler, though that’s mostly due to the fact that Sharpy’s fucking phenomenal on the other wing.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Duncs says. “Look, we all have good games and bad games right? Besides, your numbers are at the top of the league. Don’t get messed up inside your head over nothing, okay, Kaner?”

The Regionals final is against Wisconsin and Pat’s never been so apprehensive in his whole life, which is fucking ridiculous because he’s been playing hockey for years now. Why does he suddenly feel like a rookie? But the Badgers are a good team, been doing great all year, and Pat would be lying if he wasn’t a little intimidated by their first line.

They win, in the end, which is great, but Pat doesn’t get anything beyond one assist. He barely even gets close to the goal, which is upsetting enough he stays in the showers for a long time after the game, jumping when the guys troop back in and pull him out.

“I can do better,” Pat says, but they’re too busy celebrating to listen. That’s okay. Pat can fix this.

*

The UND rink is used for a lot of things besides the Sioux, which Pat is only tangentially aware of. It doesn’t really hit him until he’s sitting in Coach Sekler’s office early on Monday morning, asking for practice time. Sekler looks at him piercingly over his glasses.

“I know you’re not happy with your performance, Kane, but I don’t want you wearing yourself out.”

“I just want to practice some more, Coach,” Pat says earnestly. “I really feel like I can do better.”

Coach Sekler doesn’t really look like he believes him, but that’s fine. Pat’s not going to wear himself out, he just needs to center himself. Reconnect with the ice. He just needs the ice time.

“An hour,” Coach Sekler settles on eventually. “After practice. That’s the best I can do; the rink is booked solid the next two weeks for promotional events.”

Thankfully practice has been moved from evening to afternoon, what with classes and finals being over, so it’s more or less what Pat had been anticipating. He’ll take it. He has to.

He’s been at it for twenty minutes on Monday when Jonny finds him.

“You’re losing too much traction on the spin-o-rama.”

Pat’s stick clatters to the ice as he turns around slowly. Jonny looks uncomfortable in the rink. His face is pinched and his eyes are darting around incessantly. His fingers are on the boards, and Pat is too far to see, but he’s willing to bet that they’re clenched tight.

“No, I’m not,” Pat snaps instinctively.

Jonny focuses back on him. “Yeah, you are,” he says slowly. His voice is lower than Pat remembers it being.

They haven’t spoken since that last text. It’s not surprising, exactly, but Pat had thought—hoped, perhaps foolishly—he’d get at least another ‘good luck’. Jonny remained silent, though. At least until showing up at the rink.

“What are you doing here?”

Jonny looks away. “Sharpy said you were here.”

Pat wasn’t expecting that. “Sharpy’s talking to you?”

Jonny smiles, though there’s no humor in it. He doesn’t reply, looking around the rink instead. “It looks the same.”

“Hasn’t been that long since you quit. You’d have known that if you’d ever stepped foot inside again.”

Jonny’s flinch is visible across the ice and for a moment Pat feels incredibly guilty. Then he remembers waking up in the morning with nothing but a note and four words to keep him company. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel vicious enough.

He skates to the boards lazily, idly noting that Jonny takes a careful step back. It makes something bitterly pleased stir up in his chest. “What,” he repeats, “are you doing here?”

Jonny looks uncertain now, another thing Pat derives mean pleasure from. “I wanted to apologize.”

Pat only barely holds back a snort. “Pretty sure the timeframe for that has passed, _Tazer_.” The emphasis is deliberate and it doesn’t miss his mark. Jonny looks away, clenching his teeth together.

Moments later, though, he’s looking at Pat again, determined and slightly annoyed. It’s the same look he’d get during tutoring when Pat was too busy horsing around to understand what Jonny was saying. It still makes Pat feel weak at the knees.

“I’m sorry, Pat. I am. I didn’t mean to…” His voice trails off.

Pat smiles sharply. “Didn’t mean to do what? Go on, then. If you’re apologizing, you need to know what you’re apologizing for, right?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Jonny’s voice is quiet but clearly audible and painfully sincere. “And I’m sorry if I did. I was just—”

“Too busy realizing you’re above me and can do better?” Embarrassingly enough, Pat’s voice cracks a bit at the end.

“What? No!” Jonny’s expression is incredulous. “I was scared, Kaner.”

Pat scoffs, dropping the water bottle he’d been taking gulps out of and turning his back. Whatever, he doesn’t have time for this.

“Kaner. Pat, please.”

Pat stops before he gets to the pile of pucks that he’d carefully organized before. When he turns around, Jonny is still standing there. He’s still staring at Pat with that intensity that used to make Pat feel a bit uncomfortable before it just became something intrinsically Jonny; he’s still got his hand clenched around the boards tighter than can possibly be comfortable.

“Why did you leave?”

Jonny’s face colors. “I told you.”

“Yeah, you were scared. You’re not really giving me a lot to go on, here, Jonny. Scared of _what_ , exactly?”

There’s a pause before Jonny answers. His gaze is on the ice by now, but Pat can’t fault him for that, not really. “Yeah. You should just, God.” Jonny smiles slightly. “You should see yourself play sometimes. You’re so _good_ , Kaner.”

Pat resists the urge to mock. “How would you know?”

“You’re on YouTube, you idiot,” Jonny’s tone is as unimpressed as ever. It’s almost as if nothing has changed between them, Pat thinks idly, except for how everything has.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says. “You’re really good, and you’ve already been drafted. You’re gonna go places.” He swallows. “And I’m not.”

Pat frowns, unimpressed. “ _That_ ’s what scared you? That, what, I’m going to the NHL?”

“It might have escaped your knowledge, but I’m not good with hockey. Not anymore. I couldn’t stand my own team mates after I got hurt, Kaner. I didn’t want the same to happen to you, and I didn’t know how to stop it. And I woke up and you were there and I just. I freaked out. So, yeah. It scared me.”

“What, and you’re not scared anymore now?”

“I came here, didn’t I?” Jonny’s soft words float out over the ice. 

“Yeah,” Pat says. “I guess you did.”

It feels like long minutes of them staring at each other, though in reality it’s probably only a few moments. Eventually, Jonny picks up a gear bag that Pat hadn’t even noticed was there. “I brought my stuff,” he says hesitantly. “I thought. Maybe I could help?”

Pat looks away. As far as gestures go, this is hard to ignore. Jonny hasn’t stepped a foot inside a rink since he quit, most definitely not this rink. The fact that he’s here right now, and moreover, that he’s willing to go on the ice with Pat… 

“Okay.”

It’s not until they’re lined up at the faceoff circle that Pat’s eye falls on the C that’s still embroidered in Jonny’s UND Fighting Sioux jersey. “Guess you were wrong.” He bites his bottom lip when Jonny shoots him a questioning look, jerking his head towards Jonny’s shoulder. “Guess you’re kind of my captain after all, huh?”

Jonny’s a bit wobbly at first, which is to be expected, but when he hits his stride, Pat has a hard time not staring. It’s just that Jonny’s so fucking beautiful like this. Pat’s never had any reason to watch Jonny’s game tape, though he knows it exists, and he’s suddenly incredibly disappointed about that. 

Jonny looks at home on the ice, cruising around the rink with increasing speed and fluidity, an insecure but fundamental happiness blooming on his face that Pat’s never seen before. He laughs when Jonny cuts to a stop close by, sending a spray of ice in Pat’s direction.

“Well? Are we training or not?”

Pat grins all the way to the face-off circle.

*

It’s Pat’s second trip to the Frozen Four, but that doesn’t make it any less nerve-wracking. The final weekend of the tournament is in Minneapolis this year, and the loss from Boston is breathing harshly down all their necks. It’s a four-and-a-half-hour bus ride to Minnesota and Pat’s pretty sure his legs jiggle all the way there, much to everybody’s obvious frustration.

The air is crisp when they finally get off the bus in the early hours of Thursday morning. The sun is only just creeping up over the horizon and Pat’s breath puffs out in small clouds. The tournament doesn’t start until the next day, but he can feel the tendrils of nerves sneaking up on him already. They shouldn’t, Pat’s been working hard in every practice and he’s picked up a few tricks from the repeated practices with Jonny, but he still can’t help himself.

“Hey,” he nudges Sharpy when they’re all trooped on the sidewalk, waiting for their bags. “We’re gonna fucking win this.”

He sounds a lot more sure than he feels but when Sharpy turns to him, there’s a grin spread out all over his face that makes Pat feel like he can take on the world. When Sharpy holds his fist out expectantly, Pat doesn’t hesitate to bump it.

“Hell fucking yes, we’re gonna win this,” Sharpy says, and Pat smiles as around them the guys start cheering and cat-calling.

The game is fucking brutal. They meet the Minnesota Golden Gophers in the semifinals on Thursday. Minneapolis has come out in force, supporting the home team and filling Target Center up to the rafters. Pat can feel the cheering all the way to the changing rooms, but rather than let it rile him up even further, he lets himself feel it all the way to his bones, taking the electric atmosphere and feeding on it. No more hesitating, no more fumbling the puck. Pat’s been working hard and he knows he’s on point. It’s his last year with the Sioux and UND, a place that has given him some of the best times of his admittedly rather short life, and Pat means to pay them back.

Hell fucking yes, they’re gonna win this. And they do.

Pat doesn’t make the mistake of expecting an easy game because he’s heard enough about the Gophers’ season to be weary of underestimating them. And it’s for the better, because the team comes out determined and with the support of a home crowd behind them.

It doesn’t matter. Pat wouldn’t go so far as to say the Sioux are flying, but there’s a fire in their play that Pat hasn’t seen before. Not during the season and definitely not during the tournament last year. The Gophers may be determined, but the Sioux are resolute and it shows in every way. In the stats, with faceoff percentages and puck possession numbers ridiculously high in their favor, and in the energy that almost crackles off every guy on the team the moment is skates hit the ice.

Good thing too, because the Gophers don’t go down quietly. The first period is a mess of shots and hits that Pat doesn’t even try to keep track of. He focuses on his shifts and tries the best he can to get the puck to the back of the net. It doesn’t work. Minnesota’s defense may not be the best in Division I but their offence is top notch and the goalie is on fucking fire. He seems determined to keep them off the board, pulling out save after save until Pat is so frustrated he can barely see straight.

It’s a dangerous combination that keeps them scoreless throughout the first period and half of the second. Then Shawsy, Saader and Steeger launch an attack, zipping neatly across the ice while exchanging a flurry of passes. The Gopher’s defense are hardly rookies, overwhelmed only for a few moments, and the scrum in front of the net makes Pat scowl with yet more frustration. At least until Hammer swoops in when the puck somehow slithers out less than a second later and sinks it into the net.

They’re up 1-0 and just like that, the dam has broken. Try as they might, the Gophers can barely mount an attack and the few instances that Crow does have to make a save are easily handled. The Sioux defense slots together like a chain, barring the way as though there’s an actual wall on the ice, which leaves the puck free for the offence to make the plays. And boy, do they ever.

By the end of the second, it’s 3-0 and halfway through the third, 5-0. There’s a brief slump near the end, when the Gopher’s captain breaks through twice in quick succession but it’s not nearly good enough and when the ref calls the end of the game, the board says 5-2 and Pat feels a fierce grin spreading over his face. _One down_ , he thinks.

*

Afterwards, Pat will deny it categorically, but the truth of the matter is, he wasn’t expecting Jonny to come. Yeah, finals are done and yeah, Minneapolis isn’t that far from Grand Forks. Sure, Jonny came back to the rink and helped Pat out in the last few days.

But there’s a difference between practice in a quiet rink and coming to a Frozen Four game, and Pat hadn’t thought Jonny would be up for it. And had been only a little bit bitter about it.

Which is why he jumps nearly a foot high when he opens the door of his and Sharpy’s hotel room—the location for the impromptu party they’re having—and finds Jonny on the other side. He’s grinning widely, eyes crinkled at the corner, and looking at Pat with obvious fondness.

“Holy shit!”

Jonny chuckles. “Good to see you too, Pat.”

“Holy shit,” Pat says again, and opens the door wider to let Jonny in. “Hey fellas, look who’s come to join the party!”

There’s a raucous cheer when the guys catch sight of Jonny and he’s piled under a mountain of excited college hockey players within seconds. Pat is still grinning when Jonny manages to squirm his way out, waiting off the side with a beer and a second bottle for Jonny.

“You came.”

“Nice observation skills, Sherlock,” Jonny says dryly. He takes a sip and makes a face. “This is fucking awful. Should you guys even be drinking?”

“The final’s not till the day after tomorrow, _Cap_ ,” Pat says, grinning slyly. “Leave us our celebrations, will ya?”

Jonny rolls his eyes, but the pink flush in his cheeks gives him away. “Speaking of,” he says sincerely. “That was a good game.”

Pat doesn’t even bother to hide his preen. “Thanks.”

Jonny grins and chinks their beers together. “To doing even better in the next one, hey?”

Pat jerks, almost upending his can on the hotel carpet. “Shut up,” Pat hisses. “Christ, Jonny, you’ll jinx us!”

Jonny just looks at him, gaze unwavering and sure. “I don’t have a single doubt you guys got this, Kaner.”

“Good for you,” Pat grouches, “but we’re not so sure so let’s not count our chickens or whatever, yeah?”

Jonny doesn’t mention it again for the rest of the night, but Pat can’t shake the memory of that look. He’s not even sure he wants to, honestly. It feels too much like a good luck charm.

*

Notre Dame scrapes by Michigan in overtime in their semifinal, which means the Sioux are going to be facing the Fighting Irish in the final. Pat doesn’t watch the game for obvious reasons but they spend ample time on it during video review the next day. Coach Sekler goes over the entire team from top to bottom, pointing out their weaknesses and lecturing on how to deal with them. Pat is worn out when they finally break for lunch, though he regains some of his spirits with his food. They’re in the hotel still, team lunch, and Pat is surreptitiously texting Jonny under the table, trying to get him to join them. It’s not like the guys would mind and he’s pretty sure Sekler would just be happy to see him.

Unfortunately, Jonny is being his usual difficult self.

 _TEAM lunch kaner._ , he texts back after ignoring Pat for several minutes. 

_omg if u say ur not part o/t team 1 more time ill kick ur ass._

His phone buzzes less than ten seconds later. _you couldnt take me_

Pat’s about to reply ( _try me_ ) when Sharpy delivers a swift kick to his shins. Pat yelps, fumbles with his cutlery and in the confusion, loses track of his phone. When he looks up again, Seabs and Duncs have it, and they’re visibly sniggering.

Pat stabs his pasta viciously. “Shut up,” he says preemptively. Not that it’ll work.

Predictably, Sharpy, Duncs and Seabs just coo at him. “Don’t worry, Kaner, it’s super cute that you brought your boyfriend.”

“Jonny’s not my boyfriend,” Pat says. It comes out a tad more sullen than he’d aimed for. He winces when Sharpy’s expression turns surprised. Looks like he’s in for another chat later on. Maybe he can claim a headache. 

“Are you going to introduce him to your parents?” Saader interjects sweetly, the traitor.

“No, and can we drop it, please?” Pat’s tone isn’t harsh, but it’s hard to miss that he’s not enjoying the conversation. He doesn’t expect them to listen, his teammates aren’t known for their ability to let things go, but maybe the tournament’s been weighing on all of them more than Pat thought because after a few more chuckles, Shawsy easily brings up the Notre Dame-Michigan game and they don’t talk about it again.

Pat sighs. He didn’t mean for it to become a touchy subject, and it’s not, exactly. It’s just that Jonny and him haven’t talked about, well, them. Not since that first time in the rink, and nothing really got solved then. Pat’s not 100% sure where he stands with Jonny and he can’t deny that it smarts a little. He’s been doing his best to let it go, or at least keep it on the back burner while he’s focused on hockey, but clearly that hasn’t worked as well as he thought.

Sharpy, as expected, brings it up later that night, when they’re already getting ready for bed. “Where’s he staying?”

“Jonny?” Pat shrugs. “He said he got a motel room.”

“That’s a pretty big gesture.” Sharpy’s tone is carefully neutral, but Pat can feel his gut twisting anyway.

“I don’t know, Sharpy, okay? I know what you’re trying to get at, and the answer is, I don’t know.” There’s more snappishness in Pat’s voice than Sharpy really deserves but Pat hasn’t been able to get the boyfriend remarks out of his head all afternoon, not even during practice. It’s getting to him at a time when it really shouldn’t. He doesn’t have time for this and he kind of wishes his stupid brain had been able to keep the angsting down at least until after the game tomorrow.

“Peeksy,” Sharpy says worriedly. “You okay?”

Pat sucks in a breath. He’s not sure he is, but he’s also not sure he isn’t. The only think he’s sure of is that now really isn’t the time, so he carefully bundles up his resentment and shoves it down. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I just gotta focus on the game right now, okay? I can’t—I _don’t_ want to think of that shit right now.”

There’s a huff from the other bed. “Okay. Night, Peeks.”

“Night.”

*

The day of the Frozen Four championship dawns gray and sort of overcast. Pat slept surprisingly well, and he doesn’t even feel a twinge when Jonny texts him good luck. He meets his parents and sisters in the lobby to go out for breakfast, which is great, but Pat knows he’s distracted. He’s not buzzing with nerves but at times it feels pretty fucking close. He’s having trouble keeping track of conversations and when Jess and Erica start talking boys, he barely even grunts.

They try their best to distract him, but in the end Pat’s grateful when he can head back to the hotel for a final team meeting and then to the Target Center to suit up and finally end this, one way or another.

The atmosphere in the locker room is weighty but not scared, and Pat can feel the tension as he’s suiting up and taping his gear. It’s not a bad thing, though. The team is focused and determined, and when the slide across the ice for warm ups, Pat can feel it in his bones. This is going to be a game to remember.

They start out cautiously, which turns out to be their fucking mistake because the Fighting Irish score ten minutes into the game and then again in the dying seconds of the first period. Pat can hear the guys cursing to themselves as they head for intermission with a 2-0 deficit, trying not to let the weight of expectations weigh him down.

Sharpy, of all people, gives a rousing speech over intermission, and the Sioux come out flying, scoring twice in quick succession, one by Sharpy and the other by Saader. Pat’s fucking flying on Shawsy’s wing, deking around the D-men as though they’re not even there. He gets assists on both goals, Sharpy’s a cannon of a slap shot and Saader’s a beautiful wraparound that makes Pat’s mouth go dry.

“Fucking A!” he shouts in the direction of Saader’s face, almost inaudible over the sound of the goal horn but getting his point across anyway. Saader beams at him and mimes a “you’re next!” motion.

True to his word, Saader sends an incredible pass deep down the ice for Pat to chase. He almost loses both the puck and his stick in the ensuing tangle, but somehow he makes it through and it’s just him and the goalie. _Sorry, buddy_ , Pat thinks, _but you don’t stand a fucking chance_ , and suckers the puck in glove side, over the goalie’s shoulder and neatly into the net, just like he’s been practicing with Jonny. He makes it to the boards for a celly before the guys crowd around him, pounding his back and shouting ecstatic nonsense in his face. Pat feels on fire, electrified, on top of the world. When the Sioux go down the tunnel for the second intermission, they’re all soaring and beaming, riding high on the knowledge that they’ve got this.

Third period is when things get really crazy. It feels like someone is in the sin bin every other minute, both teams fluctuating between being on the power play and penalty kill so often it’s hard to keep track. Pat gulps down Gatorade as much as he can when he’s on the bench, talking tactics with Sharpy and Saader and listening to Coach’s remarks if there are any, and skates his fucking heart out on the ice.

This is it, this is their fucking tournament and they’re going to fucking win it. Pat wants to wear an NCAA championship ring, he wants to be able to show his team and his family and the Blackhawks and _Jonny_ that they didn’t come here for nothing.

They’re ten minutes away from the end, ten minutes away from bliss and eternal fucking glory, when Cole, one of the Fighting Irish’s D-men, sweeps up the ice and lays a hit on Seabs on the way that sends him careening into the boards. Pat feels dread sweeping through him when Seabs lands and stays down, crumpled and unmoving, and he’s so focused on getting to his teammate that he doesn’t even notice what happened to the Gopher’s offence until the goal horn rings and Pat is brought back to the present with a jarring blow.

They’re back to equal scores.

“What the fucking fuck, that wasn’t a fucking legal hit, what the fuck!” Pat protests so loudly it feels like his voice is going to give, it looks like the whole team does, but the ref stays firm in his decision. The hit was legal, and as such, the goal stands. He curses, skating back to the bench, and pushes Sharpy away when he tries to pull him back.

Seabs is being stretchered off the ice, awake and clearly responsive by now, and there’s only ten minutes left. Pat knows what that means. He hobbles over to where Duncs is sitting, sporting serious murder eyes and zeroed in on Cole.

Duncs doesn’t even blink when Pat and Sharpy sink down on either side of him. He just clenches his hands tighter around his stick. “For Seabs.”

Pat doesn’t even need to think to know what Duncs means. “Fuck,” he curses, heartfelt. “For Seabs.”

Within seconds the whole bench is echoing the sentiment, shouting loudly and banging their sticks, and when Pat’s line hops over the board for their next shift, he feels the collective determination coiled deep inside his own gut. _For Seabs_ , he thinks, who’s fought so hard all year and doesn’t even get to be there to see it end. For Sharpy too, his last year on the Sioux before grad school calls, and for Shawsy and Saader, who’ve both got so much fucking talent they deserve to fucking win in their rookie year. For the Blackhawks people in the stands and for his family, most of which have come down to see the results of all the sacrifices they’ve made over the years so Pat could play hockey.

And for Jonny, Pat can’t help but think, who braved the rink and the national championship after two years of staying as far away as he possibly could, to force Pat to be better, like he always does.

The break doesn't come on the first or second shift, but it does come in the third. There’s only three minutes left on the clock but Notre Dame has a stilted line change and when Duncs passes the puck nicely to Pat’s tape and the ice is clear ahead of him, Pat just _knows_.

He meets almost no resistance heading up to the other end, feeling the Fighting Irish’s defense scrambling to catch up while he’s already flying by, Sharpy and Shawsy hot on his heels. The goalie is ready for him this time too, won’t be fooled again by the trick Pat pulled last time.

That’s okay, though, because Pat breezes to the goal, feints to the right and then—passes to the left, right to where he knows Sharpy is waiting to tip the puck over the line.

The stadium fair explodes with a combination of a screaming crowd and a blaring goal horn, but Pat can’t focus on anything but his teammates slamming into him, shouting loud enough to make his ears ring. 

Notre Dame pull their goalie for the last minute and a half and set up a desperate push for overtime, but not even thirty seconds later, Steeger breaks loose, sets up the pass and Sharpy pushes the puck neatly into the empty net, clinching the game and getting himself a fucking hat trick to boot.

With less than a minute left on the clock, the game is theirs. Pat has no idea how to deal with the wash of emotions; he feels amazing, incredible, fucking incandescent with hysterical and pure joy as he piles on his team, smacking huge kisses on whatever skin he can find and wrapping his arms around anybody and everybody who comes within his reach.

 _Hell fucking yes, we’re gonna win this,_ he thinks, and an indescribable happiness sweeps through him, through the team and the entire Target Center.

*

The party already starts on the bus ride home so that when they eventually spill out on UND’s campus, late at night and surrounded by a cheering crowd and ecstatic fans, Pat’s already blown past tipsy and is well on his way to plastered.

They move over campus in a clumsy parade. Pat doesn’t even know where they’re going, content to let himself be led, until they stumble up the driveway of the house. The crowd pours inside and into the backyard. Someone sets up the music, alcohol is passed around and before they know it, they have a full-blown party going on.

Pat’s in the backyard, talking to a girl about… something, he’s not too clear anymore, when Jonny finds him. It’s late, well after midnight already. Jonny must have driven straight through, like the bus did, just so he could find them here. The thought makes something warm curl up in Pat’s belly.

“Hey,” he says, grinning and tugging Jonny closer for a hug. “You came!”

Jonny chuckles. “I’m having the strangest feeling of déjà vu right now.”

Pat hums. “I can live with that outcome,” he says, smirking slightly, “as long as you don’t leave me with nothing but a note this time.” Jonny tenses and Pat laughs. It’s a dick move, bringing it up, especially since he knows Jonny feels bad about it, but he’s still riding a high and can’t bring himself to feel bad. “Sorry, sorry. That’s probably too soon, right?”

They’re still pressed pretty close together which is why Pat can tell immediately when Jonny tries to entangle himself. “Pat—”

“No, nope,” Pats interrupts, “no, dude, now is not the time for that conversation.” He looks up at Jonny, grinning widely. “We won the championship.”

“Fuck yeah you did,” Jonny agrees immediately. “You fucking owned the championship.”

He’s grinning too, looking happier than Pat’s ever seen him, and Pat can’t help himself. He knows, in the back of his head, that this is a bad idea, but fuck it. He doesn’t care, pushes himself up onto his toes and kisses Jonny, hard and fast and, God, so good.

Jonny kisses back immediately, wrapping his arms around Pat and tugging them back until they’re leaning against something, Pat’s not entirely sure what. The house, maybe? The back porch railing?

It’s good, kissing Jonny, it’s so good. Better than he remembers, but then, they never did do much kissing last time, too intent on getting as close to each other as humanly possibly. Pat wants to get close this time too, pushes himself into Jonny relentlessly, but it’s different. More languid. There’s no rush this time.

Jonny’s mouth is pliant under his, warm and inviting, but he gives as good as he gets. Pat can feel his dick stirring in the jeans he hastily pulled on in the locker room. Jonny sighs when Pat pulls them apart and gasps when Pat trails his mouth down his neck. He’s shivering a little, sucking in lungfuls of air like he’s drowning, and Pat grins against Jonny’s skin. “You like that, baby?”

Jonny groans. “Fuck you, Pat,” he forces out, but there’s no bite in it. It’s probably the first time he’s called Pat anything but Kaner, and that alone would be enough for Pat to reward him, except at that precise moment there’s a vice grip around his upper arm. When he turns around to cuss out whomever it is for, seriously, the worst timing ever, Sharpy’s standing there. And he’s got his serious face on.

Pat only barely suppresses a groan. _Shit._ He doesn’t think Sharpy’s about to play human chastity belt, if only because he’s listing enough to indicate he’s also far from sober. Sharpy can’t intimidate anybody for shit when he’s drunk, but he sure looks like he’s going to give it a try.

“Jonny.”

Jonny looks… not chastened, exactly, but a bit less punch drunk. Unfortunately. Punch drunk is a startlingly attractive look on him, all glazed eyes and high flush. Pat wants it back.

“Sharpy. Congratulations, man.” Jonny’s face softens and Pat thinks, idly and for the hundredth time, he really has to figure out exactly what their relationship was like. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks. I didn’t see you after the game.” There’s no missing the accusation in Sharpy’s tone. 

Pat rolls his eyes. “We didn’t see anybody after the game but each other, you dumbass. What even are you trying to do here?”

“Just looking out for you, Peeksy.” Sharpy says mildly.

Pat ducks out from under Sharpy’s arm and gives him a shove. He giggles when Sharpy stumbles. “Yeah, well, I can look out for myself. Hey Abby,” he pitches his voice louder so Abby, who’s a bit further in the yard talking to a girl with truly impressively pink hair, can hear him. “I think I found something that belongs to you! Come get him, will you?”

She laughs and doesn’t move, except to gesture slightly. It doesn’t mean anything to Pat but it must to Sharpy because he scoffs but steps back. “Fine,” he grumps, “but I’ve got my eye on you.” His eye-hand coordination is off enough he ends up pointing more towards the window than Jonny, but Pat feels oddly touched by the gesture.

He tugs Sharpy into a hug. “Thanks,” he says quietly into Sharpy’s hair. “But I’ve got this, yeah?” He beams when Sharpy pulls back. “We fucking won.”

Sharpy grins back blindingly. “Fuck yeah, we did.”

Jonny’s still there when Pat turns back, eyes trailing Sharpy’s path distractedly. “Kaner,” is all he says.

Pat sighs. Why is it his lot in life to be surrounded by overly serious assholes on what is probably the best night of his life so far? “Nope,” he says again. “I told you. Come on, asshole, this is a victory party and you are far too sober for it.”

An indeterminate amount of beers and some truly impressively alcoholic shots later, Pat is sprawled on the couch, Jonny sort of half on top of him. It might be the same couch they were on last party. Pat can’t be sure. It’s not in the kitchen this time, though.

He pokes Jonny in the shoulder. “Hey.”

Jonny smiles at him dopily. “Hey, yourself.” Fuck, Pat is so addicted to this Jonny. Jonny should be drunk always. It’s awesome. 

It’s truly disgustingly late by this point, or disgustingly early depending on your point of view. Pat’s pretty sure there’s a hint of gray outside, which is all sorts of bad news. They should probably move to somewhere where they won’t be able to see it. There are still people in the house, the music still going though the volume is noticeably lower than before. Pat can still hear it though, something low and intense, with heavy beats that seem to resonate in Pat’s gut.

Jonny’s still looking at him when Pat blinks, but his eyes aren’t dopey anymore. They’re darker, more focused, and when Pat licks his lips, Jonny’s eyes track the movement. He looks like he had back out on the porch and it makes something flare up hotly inside Pat. 

He wiggles out from under Jonny and immediately flips around, straddling his knees around Jonny’s hips. Jonny doesn’t say anything, his hands landing on Pat’s hipbones and holding on tightly.

“This is still a bad idea,” Pat says, half to himself and half to Jonny. Jonny’s fingers tighten around his hips, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m going to do it anyway.”

Jonny groans softly when Pat kisses him this time, thought it’s mostly swallowed up by Pat’s mouth. Drunk, Jonny is a far sloppier kisser, but it doesn’t put Pat off at all. If anything, it makes him want more, chasing Jonny’s tongue. His jeans are suddenly a lot tighter, and he shivers when Jonny rolls his hips up, brushing their erections together. Jonny’s hard too, Pat can feel it easily, and it only fuels the fire between the two of them.

“Fuck,“ he gasps when Jonny sinks his teeth into the juncture of Pat’s shoulder. “Jonny, _fuck_ , I want—I want you to fuck me.”

Jonny _shudders_ under him, full-body and devastatingly hot. Pat doesn’t waste any more time, climbing off the couch and tugging Jonny towards the stairs before he loses all coherency and does something exceptionally stupid, like, say, letting Jonny fuck him right then and there.

They make it to Pat’s room through a combination of terrible coordination and sheer luck. Pat can’t stop his hands from wandering and Jonny seems surgically attached to his neck, sucking bruises in there that Pat knows are still going to be there tomorrow.

“Kaner, shit,” Jonny pants, once they’re inside and mostly stripped. He drops down on Pat’s bed like he belongs there, scooting backwards easily. He’s wearing nothing but a flimsy tank and Pat can’t look away, eyes glued Jonny’s dick. It’s fully hard, red and flushed and he remembers it in his mouth only vaguely. The idea of having it completely inside him makes him a little crazy.

“Yeah, c’mon, babe,” Pat mumbles. There’s lube and condoms in his bedside table and Pat snatches them, throwing them in Jonny’s general direction while shucking the rest of his clothes in probably record speed.

When he looks up, Jonny is looking at Pat and lazily stroking himself. Pat feels his mouth go a little dry.

“Shit,” he breathes. “ _Shit_ , that’s hot.”

Jonny’s smirking and he makes what’s probably supposed to be a come hither gesture. It’s stupidly dorky, but Pat can’t help it, he complies anyway. 

“Fuck,” Jonny says between panting breaths and hard kisses, “God, Kaner, want to fuck you so bad.”

Pat almost sobs, he wants it so badly. He feels harder than ever before, like he’s crawling inside his own skin. “Do it,” he forces out, panting. He yelps when Jonny flips them around easily. His muscles are bulging. Pat wants to lick them.

He almost leans over to just that, except Jonny must have opened the lube without Pat noticing, because the next moment there’s a finger circling his hole. Pat falls back from where he’d been leaned forward a little bit, and stuffs his hand in his mouth to stop a moan from spilling out. 

“Don’t,” Jonny says hoarsely. “I want to hear you.”

Pat grins. “You like it when I make noi—Oh!” He arches up when Jonny slides a finger inside without any warning. “ _Fuck_ , that’s good, c’mon, gimme me more, babe.” He’s breathing hard. It feels so fucking amazing, it’s been ages since Pat let himself have this. The fact that it’s Jonny stretching him out just makes it better.

Jonny tilts Pat’s knees a little, opening up his legs and stretching out his back and— _oh_ , that’s the sport. Pat moans, loudly and filthily, not even bothering to keep quiet. “Fuuuuuuck, Jonny, fuck, that's so good.” He shudders when Jonny adds a second fingers and his breathing turns ragged with the third. It hurts, more than a little, but Pat’s never minded a bit of pain mixed in with his pleasure and Jonny’s got the balance down perfectly. Pat’s half-gone already from the alcohol and Jonny’s fingers alone, but he refuses to let it end here.

“Babe,” he whines, “you gotta— _Fuck_ , c’mon, you gotta fuck me, I want you to, c’mon.”

Jonny’s hands are a little unsteady when he rolls the condom on, which is the only thing that makes up for the insufferably smug look on his face. Fuck, Pat wants him so bad. 

The smugness is wiped off Jonny’s face when he sinks in slowly, replaced with a look that’s half concentration and half amazement.

“Kaner,” he breathes, when he bottoms out. “ _Shit_.”

It’s good, it’s so fucking amazing and it gets even better when Jonny starts moving. Pat’s never had trouble with sex when he’s drunk, a few whiskey dick instances aside, but it makes him looser and hornier and most importantly, it wreaks havoc with his control. Pat’s been wanting this since he kissed Jonny on the porch, now hours ago, been walking a fine line all evening and now that he’s finally got it, he knows he’s not going to last as long as he would normally. 

Jonny groans when Pat tilts his hips up and crosses his legs behind Jonny’s back. “Come on, Jonny,” he pants. “I thought you were gonna fuck me?”

There’s nothing Jonny responds to better than a challenge and this is no exception. He gets a glint in his eyes, and Pat wonders if he’s going to regret his words. He can’t feel any regret, though, when Jonny sets up a rhythm that’s almost _punishing_. Pat keens when Jonny hits his prostate again and again and again, breathing harsh and frayed.

“Jonny, Jonny, fuck, I’m not—I’m not gonna last, babe, shit.”

“Pat,” Jonny groans, sliding in and out relentlessly. His muscles are flexing, it’s so fucking hot, Pat can hardly look away. “God, Pat, come on.”

It doesn’t take much, kind of like Pat had expected, the tension building and building until Pat feels like he might vibrate out of his skin. “Jonny,” he whines, “Jonny, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” Jonny breathes in his ear. “Do it, Pat, come on.” His voice is rough and it’s the last thing Pat can comprehend, because one, two, three thrusts later he’s exploding inside his skin, sparking inside his own mind.

Jonny shudders when Pat comes, his rhythm faltering slightly before it picks back up, more erratic than before. Pat hasn’t even fully come down yet when Jonny tenses and with a load moan, comes.

Pat’s the first one to regain his facilities, stumbling out of bed in search of tissues and maybe a washcloth. He finds neither but there’s a towel slung over his desk chair that’ll do.

Jonny mumbles when Pat cleans them both up to the best of his admittedly limited capabilities, and when Pat slides into bed, he curls the two of them together.

“Hey,” Pat mumbles. “That was great. Well done, stud.”

Jonny snorts, but when his eyes open, his expression is unexpectedly serious. “We, uh. We never did have that talk.”

Pat sighs. “Do we really have to?” he asks eventually. “No, don’t—I didn’t mean it like that, you idiot, I meant.” He pauses, trying to find the words. “Don’t we already know where we’re going?”

Jonny looks sad for a moment. “Kaner, I…”

He trails off and Pat can’t help but smile at him softly. “I know, you idiot. You’re going to grad school and I’m, well.” He shrugs. “I’m not. And that’s, I don’t know. That’s okay, you know?” Jonny still looks sad, and guilty on top of it, so Pat leans in and kisses him gently. “It is what it is, Jonny. It was never going to be anything else.”

When he pulls back, Jonny’s look at him with a crooked smile. “When did you get to be so smart?”

“Shut up, loser. It’s too fucking early, man, let’s just get some sleep so that I can function when I see my family in a few hours.” He wiggles around until his head is on Jonny’s shoulder, Jonny’s arm loosely around his waist. “You can make me breakfast in the morning.”

“Okay,” Jonny says quietly, and Pat drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.


	4. epilogue

Pat doesn’t have a signing line, not really. He’s just a fucking rookie, after all, and yeah, he gets to play with the team in his first year, but even so, there’s rarely anybody waiting around for him to sign their jersey or their cap or whatever. Not when they could be getting their stuff signed by the other, older, more-experienced guys.

It’s why he doesn’t realize somebody is waiting for him until he’s almost at the door and a sort of familiar voice shouts “Kaner!” behind him. Even then he doesn’t catch on right away, shooting up a quick smile and digging out the sharpie he keeps on him just in case.

Then he does a double take. “Jonny,” he breathes, feeling an enormous smile break over his face out of his control.

Jonny looks fucking amazing too, in tight jeans and a button-up shirt, which he must have worn under—Pat looks down at the fabric in his hands, the huge white KANE 88 glaring back at him, brightly white on a startlingly red fabric. Fuck, that’s never getting old.

Pat launches himself at Jonny before even thinking it through, wrapping his arms around Jonny’s still-broad shoulders and clinging a lot harder than he’ll admit later. Jonny is here, what the fuck, Jonny is in _Chicago_. Jonny is at the UC, and he owns Pat’s jersey.

“What the fuck, man?” Pat says when they eventually untangle themselves. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in New York!”

Jonny looks sheepish. “I, uh. I’m at Northwestern for grad school.”

He yelps when Pat socks him in the shoulder. “What the fuck, why didn’t you tell me!” Pat glares. “That is so not buddies.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” He shrugs awkwardly. “I didn’t think—I mean, uh.” He jerks his head back at the UC. “You did well out there.”

Pat tries not to preen, but it’s difficult. Apparently he’s never really lost the automatic habit of wanting to do better for Jonny, huh. Who knew? “Thanks, man.”

They stare at each other awkwardly for a minute.

“So, grad school, how’s that—”

“Listen, I wanted to—”

Jonny flushes and Pat can feel his own cheeks heating up in tandem. Apparently he’s regressed right back to tripping over his words around Jonny, which is decidedly less awesome. Jonny’s rubbing the back of his neck when Pat looks at him, smiling sheepishly. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, his eyes are shining and he looks happy. Happier than he’d been at UND, anyway. Pat is mildly surprised he can tell the difference.

“We’re going out to celebrate the win,” Pat says eventually. “You want to come?”

Jonny makes a face. “Can’t,” he says apologetically, “I got a class to teach in the morning.”

Pat pouts. “But you only just got here!”

“I’ve been here since the game started,” Jonny said amusedly.

“Yes, but you weren’t with _me_.” Duh. Obviously.

Jonny’s grinning widely now, and Pat rocks up on the balls of his feet, suddenly remembering the last time Jonny had looked at him like this. He doesn’t remember everything from that night, but what happened with Jonny is startlingly clear. “Please?”

Jonny’s sincerely apologetic. “I really can’t, Kaner, sorry.” For a few moments he just looks at Pat. “Anyway, I just, uh. I just wanted to come say hi? And congratulate you on a good game. Which, uh, I’ve done now, so.”

“So…”

“So I should be going?” It sounds almost like a question, but Jonny’s backing away, waving awkwardly, and Pat is so confused right now. What just happened, one minute they were fine and the next, what?

He’s not even two steps out the door when an arm clamps onto his shoulder and turns him around.

“Okay, so I lied,” Jonny says quickly.

Now Pat is even more confused. “You don’t have an early class?”

“What? No. I mean, yes!” Jonny takes a breath. “I do have an early class.”

Pat can feel something like annoyance kindling. This is seriously getting strange. He raises an eyebrow. “So what’d you lie about, then?”

Jonny bites his lip. “I didn’t just come over to say hi and to congratulate you.”

“Okay?”

“I just.” Jonny is looking hilariously flustered and Pat’s annoyance morphs into amusement, because he’s a terrible person and it’s been ages since he’s seen Jonny like this. It’s been ages since he’s seen Jonny, full stop.

Jonny draws in a breath and squares his shoulder. “Can I take you out sometime?”

Caught off guard, Pat flounders. “I—What?”

“Can I take you out sometime?”

Jonny sounds perfectly serious, looks it too, and Pat can’t help but think that he’s sort of wanted to kiss him since he turned around and met those stupid Canadian robot eyes. He thinks of the guys on his team and the shit they gave him the first time he picked up, which had everything to do with the way he went about it and nothing to do with the fact that Pat picked up a guy. He thinks about Sidney Crosby, coming out about his relationship with Malkin over the summer. He thinks about the awkward talk he’d had with Blackhawks PR about his sexuality just a few weeks ago, where he’d stumbled over his words and they’d assured him it was his decision and they’d support him 100% no matter what he chose.

Slowly, a smile spreads over Pat’s face. The pinched and uncomfortable expression that had been clouding up Jonny’s expression disappears in the blink of an eye, replaced by an equally goofy grin.

“Yeah,” Pat says. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Make The Moves Up As I Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687729) by [eleret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleret/pseuds/eleret)




End file.
